


the final pomegranate seed

by sir_not_appearing_in_this_archive



Series: A Midwinter Tale [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, Canon Continuation, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Murder Husbands, POV Multiple, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4786100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sir_not_appearing_in_this_archive/pseuds/sir_not_appearing_in_this_archive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is suspended between two realms, like Persephone at the gates of the Underworld. He and Hannibal survived the fall, but winter is only beginning.</p><p>[Post 3x13, Slow Burn, Will must come to terms with what he is and what he means to Hannibal, but he might not be prepared to take the final step.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [neppy](http://little-blackbirds.tumblr.com/), who's a monster and needs to be stopped. Special thanks to [ash](http://ashurs.tumblr.com/) for all the headcanons!
> 
> In honor of the season 4 we may never have.
> 
> Updates coming every weekend.

The most disappointing thing about Will Graham’s entire life was when he finally found a solid sense of direction, when he finally knew what needed to be done and precisely how to do it, he fucked it up. The universe fucked up, gravity, physics, it all went to shit. You could count on gravity when you missed a step on a staircase, but goddamn if you couldn’t jump off a cliff into the Atlantic and sidestep every physical consequence a rational person would expect.

Will Graham didn’t rise slowly from the depths of unconsciousness, he wasn’t gently rocked awake by the waves or stirred by the salt air. He crashed into the morning like a brick through a window, and if we’re keeping with the metaphor, the message wrapped around him with a rubber band was: “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Sometimes a person gets to wake up with only a vague sense of unease before reality comes back and they remember just why everything’s so terrible. But Will didn’t even get that. One second he was in the blissful black of dreamless sleep, the next he was awake and struggling under the knowledge that he was still alive. He shouldn’t be alive. A guy can’t just—just pull his—whatever Hannibal was to him—over a cliff into the fucking ocean and not die.

He was a monster, they were both monsters, and monsters died at the end. Those were the rules.

That moment on the cliff when he embraced Hannibal, embraced everything Hannibal was, had been sublime. Will had never been happier or more at peace. Not even death had scared him. Death was what he wanted, for both of them.

Now he was left dealing with an awkward morning after. Pain throbbed in his cheek and shoulder. Will let his eyes open, let them roam over the ceiling. He was in the cabin of a boat. A nice one. Someone had dressed his wounds and covered him with a blanket. The preciseness of the bandages spoke to the skill of whoever had put them there.

Will didn’t need to see the neat row of stitches on his chest or face to know who’d done them. When he closed his eyes he saw Hannibal bent over him, movements as fluid and meticulous as when he prepared food. Echoes of his touch sent a shiver down Will’s spine.

Hannibal was alive. Will wasn’t alone in a world without Hannibal Lecter. Will let go of his anger and let relief surge through him as tears stung his eyes. It would be temporary, but he wanted to enjoy at least part of the rest of his life. One small moment.

“Do you need morphine?” Chiyoh sat on the other side of the small cabin, half-hidden by shadows.

“No—I just—” Will brushed his tears away. Speaking hurt, but he pushed the words out. “Thought Hannibal was—thought I’d—” _killed him, and not me. Thought I had to live with that._

“He stitched himself up.” Chiyoh moved forward, perching on the edge of the bed. She had a small bowl of broth in her hands. “Here. Try not to move your jaw.”

He huffed a laugh. “Thanks,” he managed, then sipped his breakfast.

This was embarrassing, waking up after an attempted murder/suicide. At least the Dragon was dead. So he was 1 for 3. Not the worst record for last night. Could’ve been worse—he could have somehow literally resurrected a dozen serial killers and set them loose in the world.

Will Graham tried not to count the number of murderers flitting in and out of his memories, tried not to think of himself as their vessel. And really, if he was going to be honest with himself, he was only on loan to one particular murderer. His mind and body were his own, but he’d rented a few rooms out to Hannibal.

When he finished the broth, Chiyoh took the bowl and set it aside. They stared at one another for a long moment.

“Well, this is awkward.” Will kept his voice low and his jaw still. Wouldn’t want to ruin Hannibal’s stitches.

She watched him for a while longer. “I’ll go tell him you’re awake.”

He almost stopped her, almost begged her not to bring Hannibal back. But Chiyoh was gone, and Will stared at the ceiling, trying to get his organs to settle down inside him. He’d never been this distraught to face someone, but this wasn’t exactly run-of-the-mill. This wouldn’t be like facing Alana after he’d kissed her and she’d rejected him. He had no frame of reference for how to act now that he’d taken a life with Hannibal.

The memory of the way it felt to hold Hannibal resurfaced, juxtaposed with how Dolarhyde’s skin had given way under his knife, how it parted to let the metal inside.

Footsteps on the stairs to the cabin made Will jump. He still had no idea what to say to Hannibal. There wasn’t exactly a Hallmark card for this situation— _sorry I tried to kill us both, also I think I’m in love with you, which is weird because I’m straight. Please don’t eat me._

Will considered blurting all that out when Hannibal walked into the cabin, just to see how he’d react. But it wouldn’t have sounded right spoken in his soft, recovering-from-being-stabbed-in-the-face voice. His silence certainly had nothing to do with the sudden rush of adrenaline, the sudden dull ache in his chest, when Hannibal gave him a slight smile.

“Will.” The way Hannibal said his name was part exhalation, part caress, like he was trying to catch a butterfly without hurting its wings. “Good to see you conscious.”

With a grimace, Will eased himself up on one elbow. Lying prone made him too vulnerable, too open. In Hannibal’s arms there’d been no walls, nothing between them. Now he scrambled to rebuild his defenses. He caught himself before he reached for glasses that weren’t nearby. A flimsy layer of glass couldn’t protect him from what he’d done, anyway.

“You shouldn’t move.” The fondness around the edges of Hannibal’s eyes and mouth vanished. He was all business now, brisk movements and authoritative words. “Both wounds will scar, but I’ve done what I can to minimize the damage to your face.”

“So much for my modeling career.” Will focused on the pain that kept time with his heart, focused on the physical, the now. His hands shook as he lowered himself again. Hannibal was right about keeping still. Popping stitches wasn’t worth it.

Hannibal changed his bandages. Will expected it to hurt, but Hannibal’s hands were warm and gentle as he removed the bloody bandages and cleaned the wounds.

If Hannibal was in pain from his own injury, he didn’t show it. He was dressed in a crisp button-down shirt with a matching vest and slacks. His tie was purple paisley. No one else on the planet could manage to make the pattern look remotely dignified. Hannibal Lecter was certainly a singular man.

Will’s mind brushed against memories of the previous night, and he flinched away from them. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about anything—that was the whole point of his attempted suicide.

“It is unfortunate your injuries make talking difficult. I’m eager to discuss last night’s events with you.”

Would Hannibal notice if Will sewed his own lips together? Probably. Maybe he could make it to the deck and jump overboard, try to swim to the nearest shore. Saltwater in open wounds was nothing compared to the steady way Hannibal watched him. How could he hide from himself if he couldn’t even hide from Hannibal?

He curled his fingers in the sheets and turned away. But Hannibal remained a steady, solid presence by his side.

Outside the boat the waves rose and fell, and somewhere in the world someone walked around oblivious to the danger they were in. Hannibal Lecter was alive, and he’d be hungry soon.

 

 

 

Clouds streaked the sky in brilliant colors, like bold brushstrokes over the sunset. In this kind of moment Hannibal could understand Will’s love of sailing in more than just an academic sense. He felt it, too, the quiet calm of the sky edged with danger. Water could be unpredictable, and it hid so much. Hannibal smiled.

“You should sleep.” Chiyoh stood beside him, her face carefully blank. Despite the precaution, he had a fairly good idea of what she was thinking. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Don’t hesitate to wake me if the need arises.” His side throbbed with a delightful amount of pain. It didn’t keep him from going on about his life, but Hannibal knew he needed to take care to prevent infection. That meant more rest than usual. Getting shot was quite the inconvenience when going on the run.

In the cabin, Hannibal checked his bandage and took another dose of antibiotics. Will was stretched out on one of the two beds, asleep. He’d dozed most of the day and had pointedly ignored Hannibal’s attempt to guide him to accepting what he was now. What they were together. Hannibal had expected this amount of resistance, so it didn’t bother him. Real growth was a slow process.

He reached a hand out to touch Will’s shoulder, then stopped himself. “Will,” he said loudly. “Wake up.”

Will did, jerking out of sleep with a gasp. Hannibal handed him the antibiotics and a bottle of water.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I jumped off a cliff.”

“Good to see your charming sense of humor wasn’t damaged.” Hannibal sat on the bed, facing Will, his back straight. “You were having a nightmare.”

“Yeah.” Will closed his eyes.

Hannibal had given him more than enough space. Now wasn’t the time for another retreat. “Tell me, what images did your mind conjure? What darkness were you drowning in?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“Even the most simpleminded person’s subconscious is complex. How could I fathom the full reaches of yours?”

Will’s laugh was dry and humorless. “You were there, Dr. Lecter. We killed him. I killed him.”

“What did you feel, when you stabbed him? When the blade pierced his flesh?”

“Felt like I was doing my job, saving the world from monsters,” Will lied.

“And when the life left him? When his blood mingled with yours?”

Though Will was facing the blank wall of the cabin, Hannibal could see him clench his jaw and swallow. “Just glad it was over.”

“I find your denial unsettling.”

“And why’s that?” Will snorted.

“Because you will never be at peace until you reconcile what you see as two halves of yourself.”

“What do you want me to say?” Will sat up, turned to face him. His eyes were wide and almost pleading. “That I liked it? That when his blood gushed over my fingers I felt complete? That his death meant something other than no more families had to die to feed the Dragon? Well, it didn’t.”

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, admiring the sheen of sweat on Will’s skin. “And when you said it was beautiful?”

“I lied, to get your guard down.” Something moved behind Will’s eyes and he closed himself off, becoming opaque. “I played you, again. Just didn’t work as well this time.”

“Who are you trying to convince, Will?”

“No one. It’s the truth. You just can’t accept it. You’re too narcissistic to think I could outwit you more than once.”

“Yourself, then. I see.” Hannibal reclined on the bed, smirking.

“You actually believe I could love you? You, of all people? You’re pathetic!” Will’s voice rose to a shout.

Dropping his aloof attitude, Hannibal sat up and watched Will. Blood pooled at the corner of his mouth and spilled over his lip.

“Sh-shit—” More blood seeped out of Will’s mouth as he spoke.

“If you must give into histrionics, please refrain from ruining my work.” Hannibal crouched beside Will’s bed, examining the damage he’d done to his stitches. Several of them had ripped. Blood stained Will’s teeth and continued to run down his chin and neck. Some of it began to spread across his shoulder bandage. It almost looked like a boutonniere, though it was on the wrong side.

The urge to taste the blood struck Hannibal, but he brushed it aside. A kiss wasn’t conducive to fixing stitches. What Hannibal wanted didn’t directly translate to what Will needed. Not now, not yet.

“And,” Hannibal continued as he got out his medical kit, “you should know that your attempts to provoke me won’t work. You cannot run from who you are.”

Will closed his eyes and wisely didn’t reply.

“This will hurt. Would you like something for the pain?”

A long moment passed and Will opened his eyes, meeting Hannibal’s gaze. He shook his head. Rolling up his sleeves, Hannibal got to work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early update! Depending on how busy I am, I might update more than once a week in the future.

Will Graham stood just outside the domain of the streetlight, his curly hair flattened by a baseball cap. Hannibal himself deigned not to sacrifice quite that much for anonymity. He would’ve been more noticeable with a ridiculous hat in his tailored suit and overcoat, anyway. Best to be oneself in life’s important moments. He glanced at Will again, mentally sighing at his wardrobe of ill-fitting cargo pants, flannel shirt, and over-sized coat. Hannibal had stocked the boat with respectable clothing in Will’s size, but Will had convinced Chiyoh to go to a thrift store to get him something “more comfortable.”

The only reason Chiyoh had complied with his request was to nettle Hannibal, and to make Will seem less appealing. She didn’t understand his affection for Will. She couldn’t see his beauty like Hannibal could.

“This is a very bad idea,” Will said softly, keeping his jaw as still as possible. “The FBI will be crawling all over the place.”

“Fortune favors the bold.” Hannibal moved forward, skirting the well lit part of the street.

“Fortune favors the friends of snipers, you mean?”

Chiyoh had shadowed them through the dark city but had flitted away some time ago. Hannibal could feel her watching them from afar, her gaze a comfortable weight on the back of his neck. He ignored Will’s barb, his nervous energy, and focused on the house down the street.

This part—the anticipation, the hunt—wasn’t the best, but it had its own feral beauty. These were the first strokes of pencil across a fresh piece of paper, sometimes brash, sometimes hesitant or meandering, but never without vision. The final result, the art on display simultaneously at a crime scene and on his table, that was the most fulfilling part. But art was a process, and every step a slice of perfection, a glimpse beyond the mundane.

Before he met Will, Hannibal thought having someone beside him, observing, slowing him down, would have been highly distasteful. But now he longed to savor every moment with Will, show him every nuance of all the steps he took. He anticipated Will’s reactions to the night’s work more than he anticipated performing the task itself.

This neighborhood of Boston was quiet, now, but in a few hours the houses would stir and their occupants would spill into the streets. Hannibal could take the time to enjoy himself, but he couldn’t linger.

Turning, he gave Will a slight smile. The movement made Hannibal’s injury throb. Endorphins rushed into his blood, and he inhaled slowly. The usual unpleasant medley of urban scents floated on the air, but for once Will wasn’t wearing that horrible aftershave.

Will met his smile with a blank expression. He still wasn’t ready to admit he wanted to be here. But Will had agreed to come with little resistance, and that was progress. Hannibal would peel back the skin of the universe for him, show him the sublime pulse underneath the ordinary.

Without speaking, knowing that Will would follow, Hannibal set off down the street. As in nearly everything, he moved with the confidence of someone without fear or trepidation. The only uncertainty for Hannibal was Will, but that just made his pulse pleasantly fast. He felt almost giddy, but he controlled the sensation. Now wasn’t a great time for mistakes. He did not intend to be a love-struck fool, tripping over his own feet in front of the object of his affections.

Breaking and entering wasn’t his preferred _modus operandi_ , he’d rather take them in transit, it was cleaner that way, but they couldn’t linger in Boston. He led Will around the back of the house, then pulled out his lock-pick kit. With the same precision he brought to the surgical table, and to the butcher’s slab, he picked the lock and eased open the door. It swung on silent hinges. They stepped into the kitchen.

Inside, Bedelia Du Maurier sat with a glass of wine in one hand and a gun in the other. She raised her eyebrows and the weapon as Hannibal slipped through the door.

“Jack told me you were dead.” She sipped from the glass.

“And yet you clearly did not believe him.” Hannibal inclined his head towards the gun. Its presence in Bedelia’s otherwise tastefully appointed home was rather tacky. Perhaps if someone else had been holding it, the gun would have lent the space more power, but the lines of Bedelia’s form were marked with fear.

“I told Jack you can’t kill the Devil.”

“I warned you.” Will sounded like he nearly choked on the words as they left his throat. “Told you to run.”

Bedelia shrugged, taking another sip of wine. “You can’t run from the Devil, either. There’s no such thing as dying with dignity, but I can at least be caught with it.”

“Your fate is inevitable.” Hannibal stepped closer. The gun in her hand might as well have been a toy. If she was going to kill him, she would have years ago.

“I suppose I can chalk it up to entropy.” Bedelia drained the last of the wine in her glass and set it down on the counter. “I was doomed the moment I took you as a patient. My body is payment for my curiosity.”

Hannibal was glad to see she hadn’t lost any of her flair for the dramatic while he was incarcerated. He glanced at Will, whose eyes were locked on her. “It’s time to finish what we began, Bedelia.”

“As I said, not without some small measure of dignity for myself.” Bedelia did the only thing that could have given Hannibal pause. She shifted the gun away from his chest to aim it at Will.

 

 

 

If a heart monitor had been hooked up to Will in that moment, it wouldn’t have registered a change in his pulse. He watched, impassive, as Bedelia leveled the barrel at his center of mass. Dying would hurt, but it was what he deserved.

Bedelia’s lips curved into a smirk and her eyes lit up with humor. Will imagined she’d been hoping for this moment to come. He couldn’t blame her. His own desire to do her harm fluttered on the edges of his consciousness, but he refused to acknowledge it.

Agitation filled the air, rippling from Hannibal in waves. Will turned, met his eye. What he saw, behind the thin veil of Hannibal’s calm assurance, shocked him. Hannibal was terrified.

The dull ache in his chest that started whenever he looked at Hannibal spiked to pain, like his lungs were trying to trade places with his other organs. He couldn’t breathe. Time slowed as Hannibal allowed his mask of indifference to slip, showing Will a portion of his agony. All the hard, cruel lines of his face dissolved into something gentle. Will’s death was not something Hannibal could approach with his usual lackadaisical improvisation.

The idea that his death might cause Hannibal pain gave Will enough reason to prevent it. He moved his head in an almost imperceptible nod, knowing Hannibal would understand.

When their gaze broke apart, Will darted to the right, ignoring the scream of pain from his shoulder. As he moved around the right side of the counter, Hannibal circled the left. Bedelia fired a shot in reflex, but it didn’t come close to hitting either of them. She tried to lead Will with the gun, but he disarmed her, removed the gun’s clip, and popped the bullet out of the chamber.

His ears rang with the echo of the shot in such a small space, and blood roared through his veins. Panting from the sudden exertion and the flare of pain in his shoulder, he slid the gun and ammo into the pockets of his coat.

Will turned his attention back to Hannibal, who was completely unruffled, save for one small strand of his hair that had fallen out of place. What had Hannibal looked like, moving in tandem with him? No fear or hesitation, just bold, dangerous motion. An electric chill raced through Will’s body, and now his heart fluttered for reasons having nothing to do with his strained stitches.

Hannibal took Bedelia by the arm, pulling her to her feet with little force. She stood willingly, though she stared daggers at Will.

“We need to leave now,” Hannibal said, taking Bedelia’s arm as if they were a couple on a stroll. “Someone will report the gunshot.”

“You won’t stay dead for long.” Bedelia gave Will another vicious smirk.

“Such a shame you won’t be around to see our resurrection,” Will shot back. Watching her with Hannibal made something raw and ugly rise in him. Petty jealousy. Absurd, considering the depths of Hannibal’s love for him, but he couldn’t shake the image of her standing by Hannibal, taking Will’s place by his side.

He had no right to feel jealousy, because he himself was ambivalent about whether he wanted to be with Hannibal. But the thought of some interloper stepping into his role—

Forcing his mind back to the present, Will followed Hannibal and Bedelia outside, then around to the street. They were several blocks away when the first sirens sounded in the distance. Not long after, Chiyoh joined them, her rifle in its case.

“Jack thinks we’re dead?” Will asked Hannibal, clenching his jaw to keep from moving it.

“Most news sites are reporting the FBI’s search for our bodies. Only one or two tabloids suggest we might not have perished.”

Will snorted. Freddie Lounds would be one of those plucky, disbelieving reporters. “Didn’t realize you were keeping up with the news.”

“One can’t be expected to abandon all trappings of civilization, even while on the run.”

“How much have they pieced together?” Will watched Hannibal’s profile as they moved through shadows and patches of orange light.

“All of it, I imagine. But not anything we said. The film had no audio.”

“Film?” Dolarhyde’s camera, of course. “But how—you moved it. To record us.”

“I wanted the FBI to believe us dead as soon as possible.”

“Am I that predictable?” Hannibal had known in advance everything Will planned, but he hadn’t tried to stop any of it.

“No, never that. But you looked out at the ocean like it was your grave.” Hannibal turned and gave him a small smile. “So I ensured it wouldn’t be.”

The intensity of Hannibal’s gaze, of his words, made Will’s face flush. He looked away, focusing on the long dark street in front of them. An empty ache spread through his chest, accompanied by a longing to—to do _something_. He didn’t know what, didn’t want to know, didn’t want to think about any possibilities.

“How romantic,” Bedelia drawled, snapping Will out of Hannibal’s strange spell. She still walked arm-in-arm with Hannibal, but she hadn’t tried to run or scream for help. Bedelia was a well behaved lamb acquiescing to her own slaughter.

By the time the sun rose, they were back on the boat, heading south.


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal Lecter’s one concession to the Brazilian summer was to trade his three-piece suits for lighter cotton clothing. He wore the top button of his shirt undone and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Beard scruff lent his face a roguish air, and he had to remind himself not to scratch it. Once it grew in more, the itching would stop, but now it was almost as bad an annoyance as the humid heat that clung to his skin. But sacrifices had to made for the sake of staying out of Jack Crawford’s line of sight, and things could have been more difficult.

The FBI’s official stance on Hannibal was that he and Will were dead, but Crawford was looking for them. The single bullet in Bedelia’s home was proof enough for him. But he was focused on Europe. Jack incorrectly thought that Hannibal would return to old haunts, fall back into familiar patterns, drawn by compulsion. Jack’s weakness was in thinking Hannibal a typical psychopath controlled by his impulses. Hannibal did nothing because he had to, only because he wanted to. He would show Will Florence one day, but not until it was quite safe to be there.

And Rio de Janeiro wasn’t without its own charm. It lacked the gravitas of ancient European cities, but the land was undeniably beautiful. The city was shockingly green after the drab grays and browns of New England in winter. There seemed to be no divide between the natural and the man-made here. Trees encroached on buildings that wrapped around the hills and mountains. It was the perfect location for a fresh beginning.

After a few lessons in rudimentary Portuguese, Chiyoh had rented an apartment in Ipanema for them. Hannibal now stood on the balcony overlooking the Lagoa, watching the trees as they swayed in the steady wind that rolled off the ocean. Settling here for a time wouldn’t be too onerous. In truth, no place in the world could be completely distasteful with Will beside him.

As if summoned by Hannibal’s thoughts, Will walked out onto the balcony. He stood near Hannibal, almost close enough for their arms to brush. Part of Hannibal wanted to close the distance to see what response such casual contact would get him, but that wasn’t a boundary he wanted to push.

“I thought once we got here, I wouldn’t be cooped up with her anymore.” Will stared out at the busy neighborhood and the lagoon beyond. He and Bedelia weren’t exactly on friendly terms. Hannibal found their animosity amusing.

The bandages and stitches were gone from Will’s face, but a lovely scar remained to mark that momentous night. Hannibal had his own scar on his side, hidden, private from the world, but Will’s was bare for all to see. Hannibal longed to trace it with his fingertips.

“I’ve planned the dinner menu for tomorrow evening.” They’d only arrived yesterday, but he was eager to return to the kitchen. He’d waited long enough.

Will tensed, swallowed slowly, his hands gripping the balcony railing. He parted his lips as if to speak, but changed his mind.

“Are you afraid, Will?”

“No.” Will turned to face Hannibal. “But maybe that fact in and of itself is a little terrifying.”

“Frightened by your lack of fear?” He let a smile creep into his voice. “An interesting paradox.”

“I contain multitudes.” Will sagged against the railing.

Multitudes indeed. Hannibal wanted to tell him that every facet of his mind was brilliant and beautiful, even the vicious parts. But Will wouldn’t appreciate the truth. It would only make him uncomfortable. Instead, Hannibal turned towards the door. “I have a few things to purchase. I won’t be gone long.”

“Shouldn’t you send Chiyoh? Someone might recognize you.”

“Her many expertises don’t extend to what I need.”

“Don’t suppose I could tag along?”

Hannibal smiled. “Unfortunately, we are too striking a pair together.” He watched Will for a reaction to his phrasing, but Will only nodded, deferring to Hannibal’s sound logic on the subject.

“Be careful.” Will started to move towards Hannibal but stopped himself.

“I will endeavor to return to you unharmed.” Hannibal left without waiting to see Will’s reaction to that. He didn’t need to witness it for the image to be in his mind, clear as a photograph.

 

 

 

Inside the apartment, Chiyoh sat at the dining room table, cleaning her disassembled rifle. She looked strange in a simple tank-top and shorts. Will wondered why she’d come with them so far. Was she that loyal to Hannibal? Or maybe she had nothing better to do. Will couldn’t imagine her returning to a normal life.

His restless boredom had become so dire he almost tried to start a conversation with Chiyoh, but he gave up before making the attempt. She only spoke to him when necessary, and even then managed to make one-word answers imply he was a fool. Will walked past her without stopping, into the living room where Bedelia lounged on the couch, reading.

Things hadn’t been bad while sailing here. In fact, Will had been happy, in a strange, dreamlike way. His wounds had slowly closed, and he’d begun to wrap his mind around what they’d done. Dolarhyde’s death no longer weighed on his conscience. The rest he ignored, pushed away, though it seemed to flicker on the edges of his vision whenever Hannibal was near.

But now, since landing in Rio, he felt trapped. The whole world stretched around him, but he couldn’t leave the apartment during the day, couldn’t risk it. On the street people walked, jogged, laughed, but he could only look on in envy. The whole city thrummed with the pulse of vacationing tourists, the atmosphere of going wherever you wanted, doing whatever you wanted, with no regard to time. He wished he could be part of that unhurried bliss. Their first evening here, he’d been close enough to the beach to hear the crowds applauding the sun as it dipped into the water, as if the entire day had been a performance put on just for them. Will had longed in that moment to be one of them, his skin tight and a little red from the sun, his mind warm and hazy from drinking frozen cocktails with cutesy names all day, cheering something as simple as the continuation of the universe.

Instead he felt the cold fingers of time wrap around his throat. They would be caught, and probably shot out of hand. Jack would see to it they weren’t taken alive. Will couldn’t enjoy the days he had left with the ending so clear ahead of him.

Not to mention two out of his three traveling companions hated him. That didn’t exactly make for a relaxing on-the-run experience.

Will opened the window to let in the warm salt breeze, and Bedelia snapped her book shut.

“I prefer it closed.” She frowned up at him.

“I don’t care what you prefer.” Will sat across from her in an armchair. A sudden existential vertigo hit him as he remembered all the times he spent in Bedelia’s office with nearly the same posture.

“A fascinating coincidence,” she stood, crossed the room, slammed the window shut, “as I have just as little regard for you.”

A smirk tugged the corner of his mouth. He could continue in their puerile feud and open the window again, but he didn’t think he’d find much joy in it. “Maybe you should hit the beach, enjoy the sun.” Her face wasn’t plastered all over news sites and tabloids. She was little more than a footnote now. “I’m sure Chiyoh has something suitable to wear that you could squeeze into.”

“My own wardrobe is fine, thank you.” She wasn’t wrong. On the trip south Hannibal had gotten her tasteful summer dresses. “On the subject of style, it’s good to see you’ve gotten away from your,” her lip curled, “homeless lumberjack look. Even if you landed at white-trash tourist.”

“Fashion isn’t a pursuit worth my time.”

“Ah, yes, you’re so busy staring out at the world you can’t interact with. I could go out, but I’d much rather stay here and watch you writhe with envy. Squandering opportunities that you don’t have is more rewarding than a tan.”

Will got up, opened the window, then left the room.

 

 

 

By the time Hannibal finally came back, Will had begun to worry. He’d even started refreshing news sites just to make sure nothing about Hannibal Lecter was breaking. Buying whatever he needed to cook shouldn’t have taken hours. When a key finally turned the lock, Will was able to breathe again.

Hannibal’s arms were so full of bags Will almost didn’t notice the little dog that trailed in after him, attached to a simple black leash.

“Who’s this?” Will took the leash from Hannibal and knelt. Every shred of worry and tension melted away as he reached a hand out for the puppy to sniff.

“Meet Baleia,” Hannibal said, setting the bags down on the dining room table, away from where Chiyoh still had her rifle parts strewn about. “I thought you might enjoy her company.” He shut the door and slid the bolt back into place.

Baleia was a chocolate lab, an excited little puff of brown fur with a wagging tail. She gave a tiny, playful bark as Will scratched her head and unclipped the leash from her collar.

“You got me a dog?” He’d never known Hannibal to be fond of animals. Will held out the end of the leash, and Baleia grabbed it, playing tug-of-war with him.

“She was the runt of the litter. No one wanted her.”

“You’ll fit right in,” Will told her, “People don’t want us around, either.”

“Only because they fear us.”

“But you’re not scary, are you?” he said to Baleia, who’d abandoned the leash and had rolled over so Will could scratch her stomach. He did, and she barked again. She bit his hand, only playing, but her small, needle-sharp puppy teeth pierced his skin. Will drew his hand back with an exaggerated sound of pain. Baleia was immediately apologetic. She whined and licked his fingers.

“Did she draw blood?” Hannibal sounded more amused than concerned.

“No, she was just playing—” Will examined the row of tiny indentions in his hand. One of the breaks in the skin began to seep blood. The tear was so small it had taken a few moments for the blood to well up. “I guess she did. She doesn’t know how sharp her teeth are.” He felt protective of her already, felt the need to defend her mistake.

“Still testing her limits.” Hannibal knelt beside Will, holding his hand out to Baleia. He was still amused by her.

But how long until she pissed on the carpet or chewed up Hannibal’s shoes and he no longer wanted to tolerate her presence here? She was clearly a peace offering, a way for Hannibal to meet Will in the middle, to make the shaky start to their new life better for him. But if she was only a gesture to Hannibal, he could rescind it.

“Once you get her settled in, I’ll need your help with dinner preparations.”

The ease of Hannibal’s tone and the simplicity of playing with the puppy made Will think, for a moment, that Hannibal would have him chopping vegetables. Then he caught Hannibal’s eye and saw the danger there—not to Will himself, but to Bedelia. Unable to get words out of his throat, he nodded.

Through the open door to the living room Will could see Bedelia. She sat with her perfect blond curls over one shoulder, still turning the pages of her book. Though she didn’t glance up to watch him and Hannibal, her hands began to tremble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to [lara](http://theraggedyblog.tumblr.com/) for being my personal consultant on all things Rio.


	4. Chapter 4

Chiyoh was gone, and so was the little dog Baleia. Both had disappeared soundlessly and almost without Will’s notice, like sunlight slipping out of the room as the sun neared the horizon. He became aware of their absence in slow, creeping stages, until he could ignore it no longer. Their retreat from the apartment was as clear a message as if Hannibal had written him an invitation: _Dr. Hannibal Lecter requests the pleasure of your company for a short surgical procedure, to be followed by dinner_.

The spare room was now a surgical suite, and Hannibal was almost unrecognizable beneath his full scrubs and mask. But no one else could have moved like he did, with that same sharpness and efficiency coupled with a dancer’s elegance. He flowed through the room like the punchline of a clever joke, completely sure of himself. Bedelia was on the cot, IV line in place. A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye down to her ear as she listened to Hannibal’s patient explanation of what he was about to do.

Will had changed into his own set of scrubs as if in a dream. None of this seemed entirely real. He thought about his life before meeting Hannibal, about his small house in Wolf Trap and grading papers and preparing lectures. Everything falling between then and now, this moment here in Rio, where they stood about to amputate a woman’s perfectly healthy leg, could have been a fever dream. Any moment now he might wake, drenched in sweat with his head splitting.

“Will, are you ready?” Hannibal transfixed him with his gaze. Will hovered in the doorway, not entirely in one room or the other.

“Yes.” He stepped closer to Hannibal. “What should I—” he swallowed, then said more solidly, “What do you need me to do?”

Hannibal injected a syringe full of god knew what into Bedelia’s IV. “I’m accustomed to doing this without aid, though your help will make things go more smoothly. You may participate as much as you’d like.” He addressed Bedelia. “Count down from ten, please.”

For a moment Bedelia stared at Hannibal with defiance in her eyes, but she said, in a slow, measured voice, “Ten. Nine. Eight.” Her eyelids fluttered closed. “Sev…” She was out.

Unconscious, Bedelia seemed smaller, almost frail. The paper hospital gown gave her skin a sickly hue, and her blond curls hung lank around her head. There was no more venom in her, no more spite towards Will. He watched Hannibal tie a tourniquet around her left thigh and tried to remember his dislike for her. But the memories that circled his mind were of the moments in Italy when he thought Hannibal was going to saw his skull open. He would have run his hand along the scar on his forehead, but he had to keep his gloves sanitized.

“Could you hand me the saw, please, Will?”

But Bedelia could have ended this madness long ago. She could have gone to the FBI, could have contacted the police in Florence, could have shot them both dead in her kitchen. She hadn’t continued her relationship with Hannibal out of fear, but out of self-preservation and the selfish desire to understand him.

Will picked up the saw and gave it to Hannibal.

 

 

 

By the time Bedelia’s leg was in the oven, slow-roasting, the night had worn into the early morning hours. Hannibal wasn’t tired, and neither was Will. His whole body was filled with agitated energy. Hannibal could see it as Will paced, then sat on the couch only to rise moments later and roam around the room again. He was conflicted about the evening’s work. Hannibal himself wasn’t. He never was—and why should he be? Bedelia had been living in a haze of foolish fear. It coursed through her entire form. But now her leg was free to become something beautiful, nourishing to the eye and to the body. Bedelia had lost her sense of purpose, but now he’d give it back to her, one piece at a time.

Will knew Hannibal’s intention, his particular design in this, couldn’t help but know, couldn’t help but see Hannibal with perfect clarity. But despite Will’s understanding, he couldn’t accept this course of action as the right one. He needed time to process, and space outside these walls.

Untying his apron, Hannibal crossed the room. Will stopped pacing and stared at Hannibal with wide, almost apprehensive eyes. Hannibal didn’t speak until he’d neatly folded his apron.

“Would you like to walk with me for a while, Will?” Hannibal met Will’s eye as he said his name. He couldn’t resist overusing it in Will’s presence, couldn’t help himself but anticipate the way Will reacted when the single syllable slipped off his tongue.

“Yes.” Will nodded, ran his hand through his hair.

Leaving in the middle of the night without a coat seemed strange to Hannibal. The sudden shift from winter to summer hadn’t settled into his bones yet. But the air outside was still sticky and warm, even this long after sunset. Hannibal nodded politely to the doorman as they left the building for the dark street.

Will walked beside Hannibal, only inches between them. Hannibal wondered what would happen if he offered his arm to Will, or made a bolder move. But Hannibal was committed to doing what was best for Will, and though in matters regarding Will allowing himself to achieve his full potential Hannibal frequently pushed Will out of his comfort zone, he needed the opposite for physical concerns. Hannibal made himself as open with his intentions as he could, and now he only had to wait for Will to seize whatever opportunities he wanted.

“I find myself wondering if the world would be a better place if we’d died.” Will’s voice was soft on the salty breeze.

“If you’d killed us,” Hannibal corrected, letting his feet take him down the street, towards the Lagoa. Will followed without seeming concerned about their destination. “I fail to see how the world could be anything but worse without us here, now.”

Will snorted. “Never thought I’d catch you so lacking in imagination.”

“Perhaps you’re just too lost in yours. Us, here, now, means the owner of our apartment building is a slightly wealthier man. It means Chiyoh is not alone, it means Jack Crawford still has his quest. And most importantly,” Hannibal glanced at Will’s profile, his scar vivid in the glow of the streetlights, “it means we’re together, alive. More alive than anyone else in this city.”

“Things aren’t better for Bedelia.”

Hannibal had, for a man not used to exercising it, excellent impulse control. But now he felt the limits of that control being tested by his desire to touch Will, to stroke his cheek, brush his dark curls away from his forehead to kiss him there. Hannibal didn’t. Now even a casual touch couldn’t be seen as anything approaching platonic. “It is better this way, for her. Even if she saw our corpses, some part of her would always be looking over her shoulder for us. Now there are no surprises left. Only the end.”

“Sounds like you’re reaching to justify an atrocity.”

“I’m not the one reaching for something. You insist on remaining ambivalent to the truth.”

“And what’s the truth, Dr. Lecter?” Will’s voice was clipped, irritated. It sent a shiver down Hannibal’s spine.

“That you’ve been socialized to believe in the false concepts of good and evil, and your attachment to those notions prevents your happiness and fulfillment.”

“If good and evil don’t exist, then how can we condemn people we know instinctively to be wrong?”

Hannibal paused at a crosswalk, turning to face Will, who mirrored him. “There are no good and evil, only beauty and ugliness. And we should always aim to make the world a more beautiful place. I am certain more beauty exists with you alive, by my side, than otherwise.”

“Are you coming onto me, Hannibal?” Will asked, words low and full of heat. Hannibal’s pulse jumped at the breathy way Will said his name, but he kept his body from showing any outward sign. He wouldn’t be beaten at his own game.

“Merely stating a fact.” He crossed the street, Will only a stride behind him.

 

 

 

They strolled around the Lagoa in comfortable silence for a long stretch of time. Their roaming wasn’t the same as his walks through the fields and forests of Wolf Trap, but Will still felt less a prisoner now that he could stretch his legs and take in his surroundings. He would have been at peace but for his continued misgivings about what they’d done to Bedelia. He couldn’t erase the image of her lying helpless on Hannibal’s makeshift operating table. Would he one day be in her place? Will knew Hannibal loved him, but how long until his continued hesitance and lack of physical intimacy turned into something ugly to Hannibal?

“This is the Jardim Botânico,” Hannibal said, gesturing to the tall wrought iron fence they walked beside. Beyond it huge palm trees rose to an almost absurd height. The fronds were dark silhouettes against the sky that lightened with approaching dawn. “By all accounts, it is a lovely place to visit. Would you like to see?”

“Yes.” The place would probably be open in a few hours, and they might be early enough to avoid much of a crowd. It would be a risk, but—

Hannibal stepped up to the fence. “A pity it’s much too warm for a heavy coat. That would make this more comfortable.” He jumped, grabbed the top of the fence, and pulled himself up. The spikes at the top were more decorative than useful, and Hannibal climbed over them easily and dropped to the other side. He faced Will and gave him the slightest of smirks. “Coming?”

Will almost protested that this was illegal, that there were certainly security guards and if they were caught it would mean prison for life, or the death penalty for both of them. But in the shadow of all they’d done together, sneaking into a park hardly seemed worth the breath to warn Hannibal. He knew the consequences. Will climbed over the fence, landing near Hannibal. Will’s footing was off and he wobbled, but Hannibal steadied him. His hands were warm, his grip strong. But the touch didn’t linger longer than necessary. Will didn’t allow himself to miss it once it was gone.

They moved away from the fence and into the park. Hannibal ignored the paths, moving through the trees until they were far from the street. A giggle bubbled up in Will’s throat. All they lacked was a six pack or cheap vodka and they’d be like bored teenagers breaking insignificant laws for the hell of it. He laughed softly, and Hannibal seemed to drink it in, to savor the sound.

“Is this your version of a first date?” Will asked, only partially joking. He was so used to talking to Hannibal in carefully layered words, he couldn’t bring himself to ask outright the hundred things he needed to know. Like what his plan was, for them, all of it, and what his expectations were for Will.

“Do you want it to be?”

“I think we’re past something as mundane as a first date. We took an alternate path.” Out here in the dark, surrounded by lush palm trees and shrubs, a happy life together seemed possible. It wouldn’t be normal, but it could be good. In the moment the idea that Hannibal would give Will whatever he wanted seemed natural. But first he had to decide what he wanted.

And there was always the possibility that when dawn broke everything would reveal itself as an illusion. The world could crack, fall apart around them. He might be dead by sunset.

They wandered into a particularly beautiful spot, and Hannibal sat under a palm tree. Will did the same, admiring the first rays of sunrise as they slipped through the leaves. For a long time they lounged, talking of inconsequential things. Hannibal taught Will a few more useful phrases in Portuguese, and they conversed for a while in the local language. Will’s accent was better than Hannibal’s, but he’d always been able to adopt other people’s cadence and rhythm as well as he could adopt their point of view.

When the first tourists appeared on the paths, Will and Hannibal silently and simultaneously came to the agreement it was time to leave. They strolled out of the open gates without being challenged, and the ease of it sent Will into a fit of giggles. Somehow Hannibal always got away with whatever he wanted.

He always got what he wanted, too.

They walked back to the apartment with more direction than when they’d left, but still it seemed to take too long to Will. Any other pedestrian could see their faces, recognize them. The city was awake and thriving now. Joggers and people walking dogs passed them by, and the roads filled with morning traffic. Heavy clouds had rolled in, and thunder cracked above them.

When they were only halfway back to Ipanema, rain began to fall in heavy torrents. In seconds Will and Hannibal were both soaked. Hannibal didn’t seem to mind, taking the rain, as he did all things, in stride. His shirt clung to his chest and arms, marking the lines of his body in interesting ways. Will didn’t stare, but he was self-conscious about his own appearance.

An umbrella salesman had materialized on the street not far from them, and Hannibal stopped to buy one. He could have afforded two, but he didn’t. Only having one would force Will to either stubbornly walk in the rain or stand very close to Hannibal. An obvious manipulation, but one Will couldn’t avoid.

Heat radiated from Hannibal, or perhaps that was only Will’s imagination. The day was warm despite being soaked, but nerves chilled him. He didn’t want to go back to the apartment, to face Bedelia and Chiyoh. He didn’t want to face himself.

“You’re conflicted again.” Hannibal stepped into a small alley, out of the way of foot traffic. Will was forced to follow.

“Distractions are only temporary. They aren’t solutions.” He wished he could reverse time and go back to the quiet peace of the gardens.

“You have only to let go to find your solution.”

They stood close, less than a foot between them. A raindrop rolled down Will’s cheek, sloping towards the corner of his mouth, and Hannibal’s eyes followed it. Without thinking, Will moved forward, closing the space between them, pressing his lips against Hannibal’s. Will’s motion had been stiff, jerky. Their lips had barely touched when Hannibal gripped his shoulder and gently pushed him away.

“Stop, Will.”

“I thought this was what you wanted.” Will didn’t just think, he _knew_. He didn’t need his empathy to tell, either. Any random passerby could see Hannibal’s desire written in his body language.

“Not if you are only playing the part you think I expect. When you kiss me, I want you to be genuine.”

“What if—” Will swallowed. “What if I never genuinely want to?”

Hannibal shrugged. “Then you won’t kiss me again.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I’ve lived this much of my life without you in my bed, Will. I can survive the rest, if I must.” Hannibal let go of Will’s shoulder. “We should get back. I need to check on dinner.”

Still reeling, Will followed Hannibal down the street, trying to ignore the memory of how soft Hannibal’s lips had been against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: If you're wondering where Chiyoh was this chapter, she smuggled Baleia onto the beach and spent the afternoon relaxing and having a great time. Then she probably wandered around finding the best sniper perches.


	5. Chapter 5

When Will woke he was disoriented, half because of the unfamiliar room and bed, and half because he hadn’t struggled out of nightmares. His sleep had been deep enough he couldn’t remember a single dream, which was likely the only lucky thing that would happen to him today. Judging by the light coming through the window, it was late afternoon. The smell of cooking had slipped through the cracks around the closed door and filled the room. Will’s stomach rumbled, but as soon as he became aware of himself enough to remember what kind of meat was roasting, his appetite evaporated.

After taking his time showering and dressing, when he could delay no longer, Will wandered into the living room. Chiyoh sat on the couch, teaching Baleia commands in Japanese.

“Now you’ll have to teach me, too,” Will said, trying to keep his tone light, joking, but his voice cracked.

“You could have taught her yourself, first, before I got the chance.”

“I was—” _busy mutilating a woman then going on the strangest date of my life_. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Thank you for watching her.”

Chiyoh made a noncommittal noise and continued teaching Baleia to sit. She was a smart dog, an enthusiastic learner.

“Why are you here?” Will heard himself ask it aloud, but still he wasn’t sure if he had. Everything here had a dreamlike quality. It seemed impossible he could be in Rio with a serial killer he happened to be in love with. Of all the dark and bloodstained paths he imagined his life taking, this particular iteration had never occurred to him.

Chiyoh took so long to answer he thought she wouldn’t. “Hannibal is my friend.” She looked up at him, frowning. “I knew him before this madness began. Long before you.”

“You think I’m bad for him.” It shouldn’t have stung, but Will felt the lash of her judgment nonetheless.

“I _know_ you’re bad for him. All of this,” she gestured to the apartment around them, “is your doing. He was free before he met you.”

“He would have gotten caught eventually.”

“No, he wouldn’t have. He began courting you, and that meant courting the FBI, courting disaster.”

“I helped him escape—”

“So you could use another to end his life. And when that failed, you tried to get the ocean itself to do what you could not.”

Will couldn’t deny it, didn’t even bother to try. “I’m glad it didn’t work.” The truth slipped from his lips before he could stop it. “For what it’s worth.”

“It is worth less than nothing.” She stood, stepping towards him. “Hannibal loves you, and believes you feel the same. But you won’t even do him the courtesy of being wholly present. Part of you is still in that small, sad house in Virgina, alone.”

The severity of her tone was tempered by Baleia, who snuffled around their feet and gave a little bark for attention. Chiyoh stooped, picked her up, and stalked out of the room.

For a long while, Will simply stood, listening to his heart pound and blood rush through his ears.

 

 

 

Everything had come together flawlessly. The dining room table was set for three, the fruit of Hannibal’s labor displayed in its resplendent perfection in the center, surrounded by candles. He was proud of the presentation, it had an opulence bordering on decadent he found suited to their current location. Chiyoh had helped Bedelia to dress in an evening gown that complemented the dish, had helped her to the table before leaving. Hannibal had opted to forgo an IV line this time. Even without sedation, Bedelia wouldn’t get far if she tried to run, and he’d found, when dining with Abel Gideon, that the trappings of a hospital detracted from the experience he had tried to create. He wanted nothing to distract, nothing to mar this for Will.

Because this was a special occasion, Hannibal had sacrificed a small amount of comfort in favor of wearing one of his best three-piece suits. It was charcoal with maroon glen check and peak lapels. He’d paired it with a paisley tie and a shirt the color of watered down blood. After he’d dressed, his reflection had smiled back at him with an almost strange level of contentedness—Hannibal had never thought of himself as an unhappy man, but in retrospect all the memories of his life before meeting Will were lacking in something essential. Now every work of art Hannibal saw or created held more beauty, more meaning, pieces of music were more complex and compelling, even the halls of his memory palace shone with brighter, more vivid color.

Will stood in the kitchen, holding the bottle of wine Hannibal had selected. It wasn’t open. Will turned it in his hands, lost in unpleasant thought judging by the crease between his eyebrows. He was dressed simply compared to Hannibal and Bedelia, in black slacks and a dark blue button-down shirt. Despite Will’s deliberate casualness in clothing choice, he looked beautiful. His eyes were dark and troubled as Hannibal silently took the wine bottle from him. Hannibal’s fingertips brushed against Will’s hand. Electricity danced between them, white-hot, before Hannibal turned away to busy himself uncorking the bottle.

“We shouldn’t keep Bedelia waiting,” he said, and together they walked into the dining room.

Sitting at one end of the table, Bedelia had a placid smile on her lips, and her eyes were as unfocused as a dying lamb’s. Peace had found her at last, or Chiyoh had given her an extra dose of morphine. Either way, she would be a suitably docile dinner companion.

After pulling Will’s chair out for him, Hannibal poured their wine. The absence of Bedelia’s fork beside the other utensils didn’t escape his notice, but it didn’t concern him. He’d take it from her later, probably when she tried to murder him with it. Speaking of such gauche things now would start the meal off on the wrong footing.

Once the three glasses were half-filled, Hannibal began carving the roast. The first and best piece he gave to Will, then he served Bedelia, as was only polite, then himself. Bedelia’s smooth, pale skin had darkened to a lovely golden brown. Juice dripped down the side Hannibal had begun to carve. Will met his eye as thin wisps of smoke from the candles drifted and dissolved into the air.

“This is almost romantic, Dr. Lecter,” Will said, picking up his fork. His gaze moved deliberately to Bedelia, a clear indication he found her presence the one thing hampering Hannibal’s attempt at courtship. Will still thought in terms of the mundane and could not yet see her as simply a piece of the artwork Hannibal had laid before them.

Or, rather, Will could see it, but simply didn’t want to acknowledge the appeal it had for him.

“If this is your idea of romance,” Bedelia said, picking up her glass with a trembling hand and taking a sip, “I feel sorry for your wife.”

The mention of Molly Graham, of Will’s attempt at a life void of the grandeur he deserved, was meant to hurt Hannibal as much as Will. But there was no longer any disdain in Hannibal’s heart for Molly, his attempt to kill her by proxy hadn’t been personal. Now that she no longer had a false claim on a man who didn’t belong to her, she’d fallen back into the masses of people Hannibal had no inclination to care about, one way or the other. He supposed he could have been grateful to her, in retrospect, for keeping Will happy while they were apart, but a minuscule worm of jealousy still lingered.

“I doubt she’s still my wife. I’m dead, remember?” Will picked up his knife and fork and began to cut the meat.

“Not to Jack, and not to Alana Bloom, either.” Bedelia placed her wineglass on the table, too close to the edge, and her shaking hand sent it toppling to the floor. Dark red wine spattered like arterial spray across the white rug.

Both Will and Bedelia moved at the same time. Will pushed his chair back, stooping to retrieve the glass with the automatic instinct of a man used to animals knocking things over. Bedelia did the same, muttering an apology, but she tried to stand. Her missing leg made her overbalance, fall out of the chair to land beside the glass.

It occurred to Hannibal that he should have been doing more than just observing, and it also occurred to him that it might be too late, now.

Will, always one to take pity on the suffering of lesser creatures, stood and knelt by Bedelia to help her up. She pulled the fork out of the folds of her dress and lunged forward, aiming to stab Will in the left eye. The tines hit too low but tore a deep gash over his cheekbone. Will’s sharp cry of pain sent Hannibal’s pulse racing in a way he wasn’t accustomed to—usually he was as at home with violence as any other part of his day-to-day routine—and Bedelia lifted her arm to stab Will again. Hannibal caught her wrist with enough force to make Bedelia drop the fork.

It had only taken him moments to circle the table, but it had seemed an eternity. Had her aim been more accurate, Bedelia could have seriously wounded Will, or worse. The possibility of all that Will Graham was, every beautiful, flawed, monstrous, delicate thing about him, being extinguished so quickly, by so foolish a person, sent a ripple of panic through Hannibal. On its heels came anger. He wrapped an arm around Bedelia’s throat, relishing her ineffective struggles to get free.

Pressing a napkin to his face to slow the bleeding, Will watched Hannibal for a moment, eyes wide. “Stop. Hannibal, don’t!”

“I should have killed you years ago, Bedelia,” Hannibal said to her, only barely able to keep his voice calm. “You are by far the most ungracious dinner guest I’ve ever had.”

Her only reply was a series of soft choking noises. Just as well, she probably had nothing cogent to say, anyway.

“Hannibal.” Will’s voice was stronger now, no longer laced with pain and surprise. “Don’t. She wants you to kill her.”

“Perhaps she thought she wanted that, but in my experience,” he applied more pressure and watched the color of her skin begin to change, “in the moment, no one truly wants to die.” He met Will’s gaze. “Accepting something as the best course of action isn’t the same as wanting it.”

“Please, Hannibal. Let her go.” Will was begging, his voice, his expression, everything about him suddenly vulnerable. Hannibal wasn’t foolish enough to think it wasn’t artifice, but he also couldn’t help his desire to give even this to Will. “It’s what  _I_ want.”

A moment after Bedelia lost consciousness, Hannibal released her. She was still alive, and after a few moments her pulse settled into a normal, albeit accelerated, rhythm. Hannibal gently moved her limp form to the floor.

“Come,” he said to Will as they both stood. “Let me see to that.” Hannibal gestured to Will’s face. Blood was seeping through the napkin, around Will’s fingers and down his wrist.

Hannibal led Will to the master bedroom, told him to sit on the edge of the bed, and went to get his medical supplies. When he returned, Will hadn’t moved, and that troubled look was back on his features. Kneeling, Hannibal lightly placed his hand over Will’s, drawing it and the napkin away from the cut. It wasn’t terribly deep, not even deserving of stitches.

“Thank you,” Will said as Hannibal began to clean the gash.

“I enjoy making use of my medical training, and it’s always a pleasure to help you, in any way I’m capable.”

“Not what I meant. Thank you for not—for letting her live.”

“As I have expressed before, my compassion for you causes many inconveniences in my life. But I simply cannot bring myself to care.” Bedelia would die, most likely soon. Once Will could stomach the idea.

“What if we leave,” Will met his gaze, “tonight. Right now.”

“Not the first time such a sentiment has passed between us.” Even the memory made his chest ache, though Hannibal had long ago forgiven Will his betrayal.

“If I could take it back, I would.” Slowly, with hesitation that wasn’t an act, Will brought his hand up to touch Hannibal’s as he finished bandaging the fresh wound. Will’s skin was hot. The blood on his fingers was still drying. Hannibal wished he could kiss away the torment in Will’s eyes.

“I know. Where do you want to go?”

“Somewhere quiet, where we can be alone. Just the two of us.”

“Alright,” Hannibal stood, helped Will to his feet, savoring all the points of contact between their skin. “We’ll go. Tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, sorry for the late update, I had a stupid busy weekend. I'll do my best to keep to my deadlines for the remaining chapters.
> 
> Second, if you're worried they're going to leave the dog, don't be!


	6. Chapter 6

The full moon illuminated the rolling hills and mountains as Hannibal drove north, away from the city. The close press of buildings gave way to large stretches of forest, and Will watched them pass by without truly seeing them. Baleia slept peacefully on Will’s lap, unconcerned about the motion of the vehicle. They were in an old pick-up Hannibal had paid cash for, their two small suitcases in the middle of the bench seat. Will was ambivalent towards the necessary physical distance between him and Hannibal. Part of him wanted to be closer, to hold Hannibal’s hand like some shy teenager on a first date. The other part of him was happy for the chance to process everything that happened.

Bedelia’s eyes kept flashing through his mind, the triumph they held, then the knee-jerk, animal panic of a dying thing. He hadn’t wanted that for her, as onerous as her presence was, and he also hadn’t wanted it for Hannibal. He’d been acting in anger, not with his usual calm calculation, and that could lead to regrets. Hannibal had a particular design for her, and he needed it to play out the right way. Anything else would be an embarrassment, at the least.

Will gave no thought to their destination until the forest turned back into a town around them. He expected Hannibal to keep driving, perhaps until well after dawn, until they’d reached the end of the world. But he began to take turns off the main highway, with a deliberation that meant they were nearing a destination, if not the final one.

As far as Will could see by streetlight, the town was charming, probably half-full of tourists, with lovely architecture. Hannibal slowed and turned into a private lane, through open gates into an expansive drive. The sign they passed read _Solar do Império Hotel_. The hotel itself was painted white, with stately columns and perfectly manicured landscaping.

“Where are we?” Will’s voice was scratchy from disuse. He and Hannibal hadn’t spoken at all on the drive.

“Petrópolis, the Imperial City. The hotel is a temporary measure, until I can find us somewhere more comfortable.”

The hotel looked plenty comfortable already, but Will supposed for Hannibal it was entirely too common.

Hannibal parked the truck in front of the lobby doors. “Stay here, please,” he told Will, eyes moving to the large bandage on his cheek. His wound would draw notice, stay in people’s minds. Will didn’t regret the necessity of avoiding strangers. He still didn’t have new glasses.

When Hannibal returned, they gave the truck to a valet and walked inside, past a clerk that seemed half asleep. Their room was amazing by Will’s standards, more spacious and cleaner than his usual government-rate motel rooms. It even had a balcony that overlooked the lawn and fountain outside.

“This was the only one left,” Hannibal explained, “Though we are lucky they had any at all.” The corners of his mouth were set in a an irritated frown as his eyes moved over the bed.

Will realized, then, Hannibal wasn’t being picky about the accommodations, he was upset there was only one king-size bed. He didn’t want Will to think he’d done it on purpose, as some kind of sophomoric attempt to make a pass at him. Will began to laugh, setting his suitcase down. He unclipped Baleia’s leash, and she scampered off to explore.

“It’s fine. We’re grown men, Hannibal. I’m not afraid of sharing a bed with you for a night.”

Tension left Hannibal’s shoulders. “As long as it’s not an imposition.”

“We killed a man together. This is hardly as intimate as that.”

Hannibal’s unusual trepidation about being physical with Will was almost endearing. Hannibal had no qualms about lying to Will about his encephalitis, about pushing Will to his mental and emotional limits, about encouraging him to submit to all the darkest urges in his psyche, yet he walked on eggshells around the idea of sex, around anything even tangentially related to physical intimacy. Hannibal never saw Will as weak or unstable, and he was the only person who’d ever wanted Will for his mind—not for who his mind could imitate. In every relationship, platonic or romantic, he’d been a mirror for people to point where they wanted. Everyone who loved him just loved something reflected, everyone who needed him only needed his capacity to parrot someone else.

But not Hannibal, who saw him for who he was, who was intoxicated with Will’s mind because of its mere existence, not because of what Hannibal could use it for. He had put Will in mortal peril more than once and had trusted him to overcome, but he’d never once tried to embrace him, to touch or kiss him since they’d gone over the cliff. The lines Hannibal drew were nonsensical unless viewed in the context of his affection for Will. Will was, or had been, straight, so this was new territory. Hannibal was giving him space.

Though he hadn’t been awake that long, Will was exhausted, stretched thin by the night’s events. Every time his eyes moved across the plush comforter and pillows, they looked more appealing. Will brushed his teeth and stripped down to a t-shirt and boxers, then crawled into bed. The fresh cut on his cheek throbbed with dull pain, but each spike reminded him of the warmth of Hannibal’s touch as he patched him up.

As tired as Will was, his mind couldn’t settle into sleep until long after Hannibal had put away his tablet and put on his plaid pajamas. For all his dismissal of sharing a bed being awkward, Will’s pulse jumped as Hannibal slipped into the bed. They were far from touching, but Will knew his body heat had crept across the expanse between them. He almost wanted to move closer.

Baleia whined from the floor. He’d made her a little bed out of towels, but she was ignoring it and trying to jump onto the bed.

“Do you mind?” Will asked in a whisper. “I don’t want her to wake anyone up. Is this place even pet-friendly?”

“I don’t mind, and it isn’t. I neglected to tell the front desk about the third guest in this room.” Hannibal rose and picked the little dog up. She tried to lick his nose, but he dodged her attempts.

“I’ll sneak her out in the morning to walk her.”

Baleia settled down between them, and in minutes was asleep. Will would have to enforce better habits on her when they were somewhere more amicable to animals, but a few indulgences now wouldn’t spoil her completely.

Distracted by planning how to train Baleia, and what Japanese phrases he’d have to learn because of Chiyoh, Will’s mind settled into a peaceful sleep.

 

 

 

Steam rose from the coffee cup in Will’s hands as he brought it to his lips to drink. His silhouette against the green backdrop of the sloping hills was striking. Hannibal wanted to sketch him in that moment, to capture all Will’s quiet contemplation, the motion in his stillness. But Hannibal knew from experience he couldn’t put enough life into the mere lines of a drawing to imitate Will. No product of Hannibal’s own imagination could ever replicate who and what Will was.

Their first morning in Petrópolis, Hannibal had rented a quaint house outside the town, in a spot that was secluded enough for the illusion of wilderness but not so far as to be inconvenient. It was halfway up a sizable hill, and the front porch had a breathtaking view of the surrounding wild. At the bottom of the hill was a stream large enough for fishing, where Will had spent a large portion of his days in the week they’d been here. After a great deal of convincing, Hannibal had tried his hand at the pastime, but found watching Will to be far more enjoyable. When Hannibal let no fewer than three fish get away because of inattention, Will abandoned hope of turning Hannibal into an angler. Because the local shops didn’t have fly-fishing equipment, they sat on the bank, talking occasionally or sitting in companionable silence. Hannibal played with Baleia, who had grown on him considerably, or sketched, or read.

Will’s fishing equipment was sitting on the porch, ready to go as soon as they finished their coffee. He noticed Hannibal staring and gave him a wry smile that couldn’t hide the sudden flush in his cheeks.

“I think I’ll walk into town today,” Hannibal said, watching the golden morning light give Will’s dark, curly hair a halo. “Do you need anything?”

“Just more ingredients for Baleia’s food.” Will motioned to the little dog. Her ears pricked up at the mention of her name.

“Don’t hesitate to call if you remember something else.” They’d gotten burner phones the first day, too.

“I won’t.” Will stepped forward, hesitated, then reached out and took his hand. “Be safe, Hannibal.”

Will’s touch ended all too soon, but electric shivers ran up his arm while he watched Will gather his fishing equipment and head off with Baleia.

The walk to the nearest shops was pleasant despite the heat. Large trees gave enough shade to stop the worst of the sun, and long before the true heat of the day began, Hannibal got to town. He could have driven and made the errand take far less time, but he found strolling down the streets to be amusing. People moved around him, tourists and locals, like so many animals being led through the slaughterhouse, oblivious. On such a beautiful day, even their ignorance had a certain charm.

As he passed a few houses, he heard a sharp yell, then the unmistakable yelp of a dog in distress. His time with Will had changed him enough he stopped and peeked into the yard the sound came from. A man was shouting obscenities at a cowering dog. A completely unnecessary act of vulgarity. Hannibal frowned, but moved down the street.

All the shops he stopped at had excellent service and suitable wares. A few times, as he stepped back out into the warm morning, he felt hair on the back of his neck rise, but it only amused him. Altogether it was a pleasant, peaceful excursion. His hands full of every item on his shopping list, Hannibal walked the same path back towards what he now, with no reservations, thought of as home.

Pausing outside his last stop, Hannibal weighed the risks against the reward, and decided he couldn’t let one small detail rule his life. He set his bags down on the sidewalk and deftly jumped the short fence around the house. The lawn was small, and the dog didn’t even bark as Hannibal approached, but it did flinch away as he reached to untie its leash from the metal spike in the ground.

Hannibal wasn’t an expert on dog breeds, but it looked like a sheepdog, with a black and white coat accented in light brown. The markings around its eyes were also brown, lending it a doleful air. It resisted the first few tugs on its leash as Hannibal led it to the sidewalk, but it cooperated enough to get over the fence without a problem. Hannibal picked his bags back up and continued on his way. The entire theft had taken only half a minute.

The goosebumps on the back of his neck returned as he left the more populated area for the road to their small house. The dog whined nervously, but Hannibal shushed it with a few soothing words. By the time they arrived home, the dog seemed marginally less terrified for its life.

Just as Hannibal finished putting away all the groceries, Will returned.

“Who’s this?” He sounded equal parts delighted and surprised. Well worth the risk, indeed.

“A stray I found. You should name him.”

“He needs a bath first, and some food.” Will knelt by the dog, frowning. “Lots of food. Poor guy’s skin and bones under his fur.”

Baleia bounded up to the newcomer and tried to play with him. Hannibal picked her up. “See to him. I’ll keep her distracted.”

He took Baleia into the kitchen and sat at the table. She settled down on his lap while he browsed news articles on his tablet. Outside, Will began to fill a metal basin with water. If the dog was whining in protest, it was too far away to hear.

The front page article of TattleCrime took his mind off his surroundings immediately. Alana Bloom and Margot Verger had placed a bounty on his head, though the careful phrasing of Freddie Lounds’ article framed it as a reward for information. Clever, ruthless Margot would likely not make her foolish brother’s mistakes. She would want Hannibal killed immediately rather than attempt capture. But Alana would have Will alive, if at all possible. Hannibal was certain of that much.

That explained the man who’d been following him all morning. The corners of Hannibal’s lips turned up in a slight smile. Things could not have fallen into place more perfectly if he’d had God’s power over fortune.

When Will brought the new dog into the kitchen, it looked considerably more content with its lot in life. Hannibal supposed a full stomach would do that.

“Meet Wolf,” Will said, nostalgic longing in his eyes. “He’s been fixed. Odd, for a stray.”

Hannibal shrugged, meeting Will’s eye. “Perhaps he escaped a bad situation.” He closed the TattleCrime article and put Baleia on the ground. She immediately rushed to greet her new friend.

“Did you kill the owner?”

“No. It would be entirely too conspicuous. I am capable of tact, and restraint.”

“Thank you,” Will sat down at the table. “I know what you’re doing, and—thanks.”

Hannibal placed his hand over Will’s, delighting in how the simple action made a faint blush rise in Will’s cheeks. “Anything for you, Will.”


	7. Chapter 7

The scent of flowers and earth flowed in through the open window, carried on a breeze that could only be considered cool in comparison to the usual heat of the day. Hannibal walked through his memory palace, selecting a small room lit by brilliant golden sunlight, and placed a single _Tibouchina semidecandra_ flower on the windowsill. Attached to it was the memory of this moment, as the quiet night’s peace stretched to its breaking point. Hannibal opened his eyes.

The sun had set hours ago. Wolf and Baleia had exhausted themselves and were curled up in the corner of the living room, asleep. Will had said goodnight to Hannibal a few minutes before and had disappeared into his room. So much about their days had taken on an unobtrusive routine that was strangely comforting. Hannibal had lived alone for most of his adult life, and even when he’d been in Florence with Bedelia, it had been like living with a frightened ghost. But with Will, he was beginning to understand the full implications of sharing his life with another person. It was not as unpleasant a transition as he’d feared.

Motion from outside the window caught his eye. Hannibal was sitting in the living room, idly sketching the Catedral São Pedro de Alcântara, but he carefully closed the sketchbook and put away his pencils when the motion continued. He rose, crossed the room, and turned out the light. The entire house was dark now. Wolf stirred and began to whine, so Hannibal quietly moved both dogs to the bathroom. He bribed them into silence with a few treats, then shut the door.

When his gaze returned to the living room window, the darkness was still again. The man outside was patient, but so was Hannibal himself. With the comfortably familiar weight of a scalpel in his hand, he slipped through the silent house towards his bedroom. It was across the hall from Will’s door, a stroke of good fortune. Hannibal entered, closed the door without turning on the light, and waited.

Ripples of anticipation raced across his skin, and against his better judgment he savored them. Such a strong emotional response would make him sloppy, but he couldn’t resist thoughts of how this might play out, what might happen. Tension thrummed through the entire house. Perhaps Will would feel it and stop things before they truly began. Or perhaps the vibrations of approaching violence were just flights of fancy in Hannibal’s mind that only he could feel.

But Hannibal was certain, about an hour later, that someone had just picked the lock on the front door. The man was taking care to be quiet, but his boots were heavy and he reeked of stale sweat and cheap cologne. Baleia could smell him, too, and she started barking, though in her small voice it sounded more amusing than dangerous. Hannibal wished she’d stayed quiet. Dogs did complicate things, didn’t they? That was alright—the most lovely things in life were complicated. Hannibal thought of Will, and how Will looked at him with so many conflicting feelings.

Baleia’s barks fell off and silence filled the house again. Hannibal stepped on a floorboard he knew would creak, and a second later, the intruder kicked the door in. The first thing through was a gun, but Hannibal, who’d been standing beside the door, grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted almost hard enough to break it. The gun clattered to the floor. Hannibal darted forward, slashing at the man’s neck with his scalpel. But he dodged, apparently not a completely unprepared bounty-hunter, and threw a punch Hannibal couldn’t avoid.

Pain flared through his cheekbone, but it wasn’t enough to cause alarm, only enough to send tendrils of adrenaline into his blood. He stepped back as the man threw another punch, being careful to kick the gun into the far corner of the room as he moved. The handle of the scalpel was warm in Hannibal’s hands as the blade sliced through the man’s flesh. Just a gash on the arm, nothing that would incapacitate him, but the dark stain that gushed over the man’s shirt was a promise for more.

The door across the hall opened, and Will stepped out. The bounty-hunter hadn’t heard him yet, and stayed focused on Hannibal. He smiled.

“I’m sure Margot Verger warned you to avoid this situation,” Hannibal said in Portuguese.

“She advised having a back-up plan,” the man answered, reaching behind his back. Before he could grab the gun there, Will spun him around and slammed him into the door frame.

Silver reflected the scant light of the stars and moon as Will drove a knife deep into the man’s stomach. With a few jerks, Will slid the knife up to his sternum. Coils of intestine fell out of the man’s abdomen, along with gouts of blood that spattered the floor and Will’s bare feet. Hannibal stepped back for the sake of his leather shoes, and to avoid having to get stains out of his clothes, but the motion was subconscious. His eyes couldn’t move from Will’s form. He was wearing a t-shirt and boxers, his usual sleep attire, and his hair was in disarray. Blood coated his pale skin up to the elbows now, dripping off his forearms as he wrenched the knife up to pierce the intruder’s heart. From his perspective, Hannibal could only see Will in profile, until Will turned and met his gaze. Cold shivers and heat alike shot through Hannibal as Will’s eyes, so full of a dark and hungry power, raked over him.

Will let go of the knife handle, and of the body, which slumped over and fell with a hollow thud. He stepped over it, crossed the room to stand in front of Hannibal, only inches away. Their proximity did nothing to help Hannibal gain control of his pulse, which was a little too high for his liking.

“You knew this would happen.” Will’s voice held no accusation, only a soft heat, like the beginnings of anger.

Hannibal nodded. “It was bound to happen eventually. Margot has effectively put a price on our heads.”

“How long?”

“The news went public this morning, though I’m sure they have their own agents who have been in play longer.”

“You could have told me.” Now Will sounded merely resigned.

“I wanted to see what would happen.” No point in disguising the truth to Will. He would have already guessed it.

“If you keep gambling with our lives, one day you’re going to lose.” Will lifted his hand, touched Hannibal’s bruised cheek. “Does it hurt?” He ghosted his thumb over the skin, leaving a trail of drying blood.

“Not a noteworthy amount.”

Will applied pressure with his thumb, and the pain changed from dull to sharp. A gasp that was little more than a breath hissed through Hannibal’s teeth as endorphins surged in response.

His reaction made something spark in Will’s eyes. Will closed the distance between them, but without haste, almost lazily. Running his other hand through Hannibal’s hair, Will kissed him. It was light, almost hesitant, but unlike the first time, in the rain in Rio, this kiss wasn’t forced or stiff. It wasn’t an imitation of affection. Will’s first attempt had left Hannibal aching with melancholy and a desire for what might never be. This, now, Will’s soft lips brushing his, was pure fire. Hannibal placed his hands on Will’s waist, his fingers moving lightly over a sliver of exposed skin. Will let out a soft gasp and broke their kiss.

The kiss had been fleeting but nothing approaching chaste. Will’s face was flushed, his blue eyes half-closed, lips still parted with uneven breaths slipping between them. Though their bodies weren’t touching, and Hannibal was much too polite to look down, he was certain Will’s face wasn’t the only thing being affected by extra blood flow. Hannibal’s own cock was half-erect from a combination of the ache in his cheek, the kiss, and the way Will’s hands still moved through his hair. Hannibal’s self control wavered, but didn’t break. Will’s eyes were filled with too much confused turmoil for Hannibal to safely push his luck.

“Perhaps we should take care of that,” Hannibal said in a low voice, gesturing to the corpse in the doorway.

“Yeah,” Will nodded, turned away. “You only have a few minutes before the meat begins to spoil.”

 

 

 

A grave in the woods wasn’t a particularly elegant end for a nameless bounty-hunter, nor was it an elegant end to the night’s work, but it was necessary. Grave-digging was the kind of physical activity that left little time for idle thoughts an no breath for smalltalk, so Will and Hannibal worked side-by-side in comfortable silence, the quality of which reminded Will of the satisfied, exhausted quiet of lying in bed with someone after sex. The exertion of shoveling dark earth had burned away most of his sexual frustration. Now only the memory of it remained, but that still blazed in his mind.

Hannibal, standing outlined by moonlight, expression enraptured, watching Will like he was the most beautiful thing in the world. Will had been drawn to him, to touch the blooming bruise on his face. Everything in that moment had been electric, like a current ran through Will. The bounty-hunter had been about to shoot them both, but ending his life hadn’t been difficult. The power Will held over death had intoxicated him, and when Hannibal reacted so viscerally to his touch, something had risen up and taken control of Will. Or, more truthfully, Will had simply relaxed his control over himself. All week the idea of kissing Hannibal had been hovering in the back of his mind, but he’d forced his imagination to avoid the subject. He’d wondered, both in a detached, academic fashion and a very real physical one what it would be like to kiss Hannibal with conviction, to perhaps do more.

No effort of his excellent imagination could have lived up to reality. All his fears that kissing a man might be awkward had evaporated as soon as their lips touched. Will couldn’t remember being so quickly turned on by a simple kiss before, but he supposed lots of factors had led to that. Will had enjoyed it, though, and intended to do it again, despite his lingering apprehension. So much of their future together was uncertain, especially now that Margot was sending people after them.

“We can’t stay here,” Will said as they finally began to pile dirt onto the corpse. The nameless man’s left kidney was marinading in the fridge. Fortunately, Will hadn’t ruptured the man’s intestines, but he’d destroyed his heart. Hannibal had been disappointed, said he’d wanted to serve Will the man’s heart on a platter.

“No, we cannot. Where would you like to go?” Locks of Hannibal’s hair fell across his forehead as they worked. Will kept getting distracted by them.

“As much as I like rural areas, a city is safer. More anonymous. We’re too easy to spot in a small town.”

“Would you like to return to our apartment in Rio?” Hannibal said it in an offhand way. He wanted to get back to where he’d left off with Bedelia.

Will nodded. “Yes.” Hannibal needed to kill Bedelia, and as distasteful as that was to Will, he wouldn’t stand in Hannibal’s way. “But can we stay another day or two?”

Hannibal filled the grave in the rest of the way, then began covering it with dead leaves and vines. “Yes. Of course.”

“And could you do something else for me?” Will leaned his weight against his shovel, regaining his breath.

“If it’s in my power.”

“Next time you spot someone trying to murder us, let me know. It’s only polite.”


	8. Chapter 8

As Hannibal opened the door to the apartment, he knew something was wrong. The space smelled strongly of cleaning products and nothing else, as if no people had ever inhabited these rooms. The furniture had been polished, every surface wiped down. The only item in the entire apartment that hadn’t been there when they’d first arrived in Rio was a single snail shell, sitting on the dining room table. Hannibal picked it up, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. Chiyoh had taken Bedelia. No matter. He’d catch up with them eventually. He was far more concerned with the man by his side than with distant prey.

Will didn’t bother to hide his relief at their absence. He let Wolf and Baleia off their leashes to roam, and the dogs scampered away. “Are you going after them?” Will’s voice was tinged with hesitation.

“No.” Hannibal turned to Will, smiling. “I thought perhaps you might accompany me to the opera tonight.”

His suggestion clearly took Will off guard. His eyebrows rose and his blue eyes lit up with surprise. “Sure. I don’t know much about it, though.”

“It’s a fairly straightforward method of storytelling. You need not be an expert to enjoy it.”

“What’s the dress code? Black tie?”

“While I’m sure some in attendance will be in tuxedos and gowns, perhaps we should aim to blend with the masses more. For now.” With the news of the reward so fresh, there was always the chance more hunters would come after them—and statistically speaking, at least some of them might not be complete fools. Someone was bound to try the sniper-rifle-on-the-roof approach, which Hannibal couldn’t guard against. Not without Chiyoh’s help.

“Right,” Will nodded absently, moving a large cooler from one hand to the other with an unconsciously graceful motion. “Suit and tie?”

“That would be acceptable, yes.” Hannibal’s eyes moved to the cooler, which contained the last fish Will caught in Petrópolis. “Would you care to help me with dinner preparations?”

The fish were still alive, swimming in small circles in the water-filled cooler. Will took them out, one by one, and gutted them as Hannibal sliced lemons and mixed a glaze. The meal was a simple one, but Hannibal didn’t have time for anything more elaborate. He was privately pleased to be able to use so little of his attention on prep work. It allowed him to watch Will as he deftly slid a knife through each fish’s belly.

“Does that feel much the same as killing the bounty-hunter?” Hannibal asked him, too curious to keep quiet.

“No,” Will answered after a moment, “not really. The challenge with the fish happened when I caught them. That’s when I felt the rush of having won. This is just a simple chore.”

“And defending your own life is more than a chore.”

“Not my life, yours. He was going to shoot you, remember?”

“What did you feel in that moment, when you saved me?” Hannibal dropped all pretense of slicing and turned to face Will, his hip resting against the counter.

“An unusual bliss. It’s intoxicating to know that you can protect the things you—you care about.” Will’s hands became clumsy as he spoke, and the knife slipped, nicking his finger. He hissed through his teeth and put the knife down.

“Let me see.” Hannibal was all business now, even though the injury looked minimal. Will offered Hannibal his hand for inspection. Blood seeped from the cut, so Hannibal turned the tap on and washed it away. “Wait here, I’ll get a bandage.”

When Hannibal returned, he was pleased to see Will hadn’t moved, though the look in his eye strongly suggested he found all this to be an overreaction to what was little more than a paper-cut. Perhaps Hannibal was taking any chance to touch Will, to express his affection in a physical way, but fish entrails weren’t good on an open wound. Hannibal took his time and was exceedingly gentle as he wrapped the bandage around Will’s finger. When he glanced up, he caught Will staring at him with echoes of hunger in his expression.

Hannibal released Will’s hand and turned back to slicing lemons. A moment later, Will picked his own knife up again. After Hannibal put the fish in the oven to bake, Will rounded up the dogs and took them for a walk.

The sudden solitude should have been relaxing for Hannibal, but he found the silence to be an unsettling void. How quickly he’d become used to life in the little house in Petrópolis. Now the constant hum of the city outside the apartment only exacerbated the quiet around him. He wished he had a theremin or harpsichord to play, but at the moment his main sources of entertainment were his tablet and sketchbook. Hannibal picked up the former, settling on the couch to catch up on local and international news. Perhaps Freddie Lounds had found some new salacious lies to print about him and Will.

He hadn’t expected to make the top headlines, not this long after their disappearance, but Hannibal was unpleasantly surprised to find another killer had supplanted them, at least in the Brazilian news. Bodies had been found in Copacabana, the neighborhood to the northeast of Ipanema. Such a gruesome display in a famous tourist destination probably would have been handled more quietly, but the people who discovered the bodies posted pictures on Twitter that spread to all the major social networking sites. The story was gaining traction internationally, and Hannibal suspected it would make the nightly news in the US. The three victims were American.

Petty jealousy aside, this new killer on the prowl was fortunate for Hannibal and Will. They would no longer be the most terrifying bogeymen lurking in the minds of the public. The more Hannibal read about the murders, the more his curiosity replaced his offense, and his eyes moved over the controversial photos with interest. He didn’t have Will’s gifts, but he was sufficiently competent to devise a few rudimentary theories.

Hannibal was so absorbed in reading he hardly noticed the alluring scent of dinner baking. A slow smile spread across his face, and the spell of concentration and amusement didn’t break until Will returned amid a flurry of excited dogs.

 

 

 

While Hannibal paid the for the cab, Will stared at their destination, the Theatro Municipal. Located in the heart of downtown Rio, its elaborate, antiquated architecture stood out against the stark modern buildings around it. The theater, with its vaguely baroque lines, seemed the perfect backdrop for an evening with Hannibal Lecter. Will felt Hannibal’s presence at his side and wondered if Hannibal saw this place as a poor imitation of European grandeur, or if he saw it like Will did—stunningly beautiful in its own right.

The night was warm and humid, and Will had to resist the urge to loosen his tie. To Hannibal’s credit, he seemed completely unruffled by the heat as they walked towards the theater. Inside, it was every bit as intricate as Will imagined, with marble columns and a grand staircase. It could have been the setting for _Phantom of the Opera_. Will grinned at the thought and followed Hannibal through the crowd. Only after they were seated did it occur to Will to ask what they were seeing.

“Puccini’s _Turandot_ ,” Hannibal answered, “Based on a Persian myth, it tells the story of a princess who will only marry someone who can solve her three riddles. The penalty for a wrong answer is death.”

“That’s a little Monty Python, isn’t it?”

Hannibal gave Will a long-suffering stare, and he had to stifle laughter. “Does it have a happy ending?”

“The ending is contentious. Puccini died before finishing the work. His friend Franco Alfano completed it, but not to the critics’ satisfaction.”

“I’m sure it’ll be good enough for me.”

“Perhaps.” Hannibal turned his attention to the stage as the house lights dimmed. Applause erupted when the conductor entered the orchestra pit, then the opening score began.

The lyrics were in Italian, but Hannibal whispered translations of important lines, his lips close to Will’s ear, breath tickling Will’s neck. Hannibal’s method of communication was so distracting Will missed a great deal of the first act, but the plot was easy enough to follow. He’d been worried the opera wouldn’t interest him, but Will found the experience enchanting. When the curtain fell at the end of the third act, he didn’t hesitate to join Hannibal in a standing ovation.

Outside the theater, Hannibal made no attempt to hail a cab. Will was fine with that, with just walking aimlessly for a while. His mind was buzzing in too many directions.

“Did you find the ending satisfying?” Hannibal strode beside him, their arms almost brushing. Almost.

“Not really. It didn’t make sense. Turandot’s behavior throughout most of the story just gets thrown out the window. And after how Liù died to save the prince, he just forgot her. That kind of happily ever after is just fairytale drivel.”

“How would you have ended it?” Hannibal watched Will with open curiosity in his eyes. Their steps were slow now, meandering. The occasional loud drunken group passed them by.

“I thought she’d tricked him into telling her his name, and when dawn came she would have him killed. But instead they got married.” Will snorted a derisive laugh. “Love at first sight.”

“You don’t believe such a thing is possible?”

“Lust, sure, but love?” Will brushed his thumb across the band-aid on his finger, recalling how almost saying the word to Hannibal earlier had startled him so much. “Love is a different beast entirely.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I loved you the moment I saw you?”

The words, uttered in such a matter-of-fact way, stopped Will in the middle of a crosswalk. A fellow pedestrian bumped into him, and he took a few dazed steps forward, until he was safely out of the road. His first thought was that Hannibal was joking, but his tone and expression held none of the quiet amusement that usually went along with Hannibal’s subtle jokes. Will caught up to Hannibal before he could organize his thoughts enough to speak.

“I think even your mind is susceptible to revisionist history.”

“You suppose the depths of my feelings for you now are clouding the past?”

“There’s no way to prevent it.” He kept the rest of that sentiment to himself, about how Hannibal’s presence had seeped through his past to before they’d met. In nearly every memory, no matter how mundane, Will felt as if Hannibal were standing right beside him.

“I remember the moment clearly. I even made a note in my journal.”

“Which you conveniently destroyed.” Will’s heart seemed to lurch, beating erratically. He recalled the first time he’d met Hannibal. Will had been snappish, and probably appallingly rude in Hannibal’s estimation. “I wasn’t particularly friendly that day. I’m surprised you didn’t add me to the menu.”

“Your reputation was too interesting to write you off. In my professional circles, you were the source of much frustrated curiosity. I couldn’t resist meeting you. And once I met you, I couldn’t resist you at all.”

Heat rose in Will’s cheeks. “Strange thing to do to someone you love, frame them for murder.” He wished the flush in his skin was from anger, but Will couldn’t summon an ounce of it.

“I admit that, though I knew I loved you, I didn’t anticipate how badly I needed you. For the record, I always intended to prove your innocence.”

Will took Hannibal’s hand, threading their fingers together. “For the record, I—”

A scream tore through the humid air, cutting Will off and startling the other nearby pedestrians. His instincts to investigate, to protect innocent lives, rose to the surface. He met Hannibal’s eye. Hannibal nodded, and together they ran towards the source of the scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the plot summary and more information about _Turandot_ , check out the [Wikipedia article](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turandot)!


	9. Chapter 9

By Hannibal’s estimation, the scream was one of terror, not pain, but he kept pace with Will nonetheless. Will’s concern for strangers in need of help was an endearing, though inconvenient, trait. Hannibal couldn’t bring himself to feel anything like resentment for it as they pushed their way through a small crowd of startled people.

The young woman who had been screaming was now shouting about dead bodies, pointing towards a building that was under heavy construction.

“What’s she saying?” Will asked. His Portuguese was improving, but the woman wasn’t taking care to be articulate. Her words were broken with sobs.

“Someone’s been murdered. Come,” Hannibal took Will’s hand as Will had taken his before. “We don’t want to end up in the background of a photo.” He led Will away from the swarm of phone-wielding pedestrians. Together they circled the large building, cutting through an alley to find another entrance.

“This isn’t a good idea,” Will said, voice stern. “We’ll get caught—”

“We have a few moments to take a look. Aren’t you curious?”

“Someone probably just got mugged and stabbed for their trouble.” But Will’s eyes shone with interest. He didn’t believe his own words.

“Perhaps it’s a great deal more than that.” Aware of how short time was, Hannibal kicked the door open, sending large wood splinters into the air. He moved inside, Will right behind him. “Have you read the news today?”

“No.” The hallway was dark, but enough light from the end illuminated the few pieces of debris on the ground. They walked around them easily. At the end of the short hall was a large lobby.

“Someone has been making political statements out of tourists here in Rio.”

“Not a safe time for two tourists to be wandering around in a deserted building.”

“I’m certain he wouldn’t find us to be like his usual prey.” They reached the end of the hall. The building had large glass windows, some covered in plastic sheeting, that let in ample streetlight to see the display before them.

Four bodies had been propped up on mannequin stands, arranged in a diagonal line near the center of the lobby. The blood was still drying, the corpses only an hour old at most. The smell of decay had not yet begun to overpower the awful body spray half the bodies were doused in. Hannibal wanted to move forward, to examine them more closely, but he waited for Will to take the lead.

Watching Will Graham do what he did best—slip into another person’s skin—was truly enchanting. Hannibal hardly spared more than a glance or two at the carefully staged scene. His eyes were drawn to Will, who stepped around the dead with a curious reverence.

“What do you see?”

“Rage.” Will’s voice was distracted. “Multiple stab wounds. Overkill on all of them. Two men, two women, all early twenties. Expensive clothes. Stamps on their hands from the same nightclub, but faded from washing.” Will closed his eyes, taking a few measured breaths. Hannibal watched his chest rise and fall, profile lit by orange light that would have been ugly illuminating anyone else. In Will’s mind the pendulum must have been stripping away his own drives and motivations, leaving room for the killer’s.

“I follow them from the club. They’re drunk, all of them. Oblivious, obnoxious. They see the world as something disposable, to be used up and tossed away. I follow them to their hotel room, but I wait to take them.” Will’s eyes slid open. “Why? Drunk people are easier to subdue.”

Flashing lights interrupted Will’s monologue, and neither of them wasted time dallying. They left with more haste than when they’d entered, not slowing until they were on the street again.

Hannibal knew this was the same killer again, so prolific he must have been on a spree. That meant there would be much more data for Will to analyze in making a profile. It also meant the authorities would be eager to catch the killer, which put a time limit on their opportunity.

“Something about the way they were arranged,” Will said as they joined the flow of foot traffic. “It was familiar.”

“We’ll have ample time to discuss it.” Hannibal hailed an empty cab as it drove by. “You should also examine the photos from the previous crime scene.”

“Hannibal,” Will’s voice sent a shiver up Hannibal’s spine, “I don’t work for the FBI anymore. Any insight I might have won’t be useful, unless I leave an anonymous tip.”

The cab pulled up to the curb. Hannibal opened the door for Will. “I don’t intend to help the local police.”

For a long moment Will stared into Hannibal’s eyes. It made a familiar ache twist in his chest. Their gaze broke, and Will got into the cab. Hannibal circled the car and slid into the seat beside him, telling the driver their address.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Will murmured. “At home.” He reached across the seat and threaded his fingers through Hannibal’s.

 

 

 

Three seconds after Hannibal handed Will his tablet with the photos of the first murders pulled up, Will gasped. How could he have taken so long to realize? Wolf, who’d been lying on the couch with his head in Will’s lap, started, but Will calmed him by scratching behind his ears. He took care to speak softly to Hannibal, who sat on his other side.

“These bodies are meant to mimic swimmers.” They’d been stretched out on their stomachs, one arm extended in a crude imitation of a breaststroke. “The new ones are runners at the starting line.” They’d been staggered as if on a track, but their upright poses made the connection more difficult. The killer probably didn’t have the skill to keep them in a crouched position without the bodies falling over. He was still learning.

“A great deal of rage directed at athleticism,” Hannibal joked.

“The Olympics. It’s why half the city’s under construction. It’s also a huge drain on resources.” Will looked up at Hannibal. “But you already knew that. You called it a political statement.”

“I suspected.” Hannibal shrugged. “And I didn’t arrive at the conclusion as easily as you have.” He’d been testing Will, and perhaps his own theory to see if it matched Will’s.

“This is an invigorating academic exercise,” Will said in a deadpan tone, “but ultimately futile. We don’t have enough information to make a solid profile, not one that could lead to the killer’s capture.”

“If you see enough that the police don’t, we might find him first.”

“You want me to kill him. You want _us_ to kill him.” Will had spoken loudly enough to startle Wolf again, and Baleia whined at his feet.

“Is he not deserving?”

“You’re deserving, too. We both are.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. These victims, though they represent something distasteful, are ultimately without blame.”

Will turned away from Hannibal. “But everyone we’ve ever killed had it coming, so that absolves us?”

“Yes.” Hannibal’s voice was void of any irony or uncertainty. He believed what he said with complete conviction. Will envied that about him.

Handing the tablet back to Hannibal, Will stood. “Goodnight,” he said, an edge to his voice.

“Goodnight, Will.”

In his room, a closed door at his back, Will frowned, loosening his tie at last. In the moment, every life he’d taken had seemed justified. Kill or be killed. But calmly plotting with Hannibal as if it were no more serious than planning a grocery list unnerved Will. He felt phantom pains from where his solid morality had once been, but he also longed for the sense of sublime power that came with taking a life. His desires were spiked with guilt and self-loathing. Will knew if Hannibal led him to another victim, he wouldn’t hesitate. A large part of him was already eagerly anticipating the chance.

Will undressed and crawled into bed. His body was exhausted, but his mind was miles from sleep. When he closed his eyes, the details of both crime scenes flashed in his memory. Echoes of hatred came along with them. The killer was far from finished. He wanted to make a serious impact. He would get bolder, and that might lead to mistakes. But without access to police files and autopsy reports, Will couldn’t imagine catching the killer. He couldn’t think of a way to get his hands on any of the case files, either, not without a huge personal risk. Anyone he or Hannibal attempted to pay off for information would have much more to gain from cashing in on their bounty. Neither of them had any contacts that could be trusted. Everyone either thought they were dead, or wanted them that way.

The only way he could get outside help was if he had more to give than Margot Verger, but not even Hannibal’s pockets were that deep, not while they were on the run. And Will had nothing to offer himself, not monetarily at least—

Will sat up, reaching for his burner phone, a dangerous idea forming. He couldn’t give millions, but he might be able to offer more than that in potential earnings. His fingers hesitated over the keys. Making this call meant he was knowingly, willfully walking down a path that would lead to more blood on his hands. Will swallowed slowly, then began dialing a number. Hopefully Freddie Lounds hadn’t changed it.

It rang twice before Freddie’s tired voice answered with an irate hello.

“Hope I’m not calling too late, Ms. Lounds.” Will could practically feel Freddie’s mind snap awake.

“Will Graham. You’re supposed to be dead.” Her voice was flippantly flirtatious, but Will knew the sharp mind she was hiding.

“Sorry to disappoint.” Will weighed the risk of talking openly with Freddie. She was certain to record this, if she wasn’t already. But would she run to the FBI, or Margot? “I’m alive and well.”

“That’s not surprising. No one who ever met you or Dr. Lecter believes you’re dead. But I am curious about why you’re making this call.”

“I need a favor.”

“And why should I help a crazed killer?”

“Because it’ll make you rich and famous, instead of a joke. And if you’re thinking about going to Jack Crawford, don’t, unless you want to end up a forgotten footnote of our story.” Even if her tip was the one that got them captured, Freddie wouldn’t benefit much. She might have her fifteen minutes, but Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter would be the household names that lasted in memories.

“What are you offering?” She was hooked, Will could hear it in her voice.

“Everything. The entire story, starting with Garret Jacob Hobbs. No detail left out. But,” he paused, “it will have to be published posthumously. You understand?”

“Of course. And I suppose an anonymous source inside the FBI will give me full details about how you killed Francis Dolarhyde, then plunged to your death in the Atlantic?”

“Naturally. This book will make you a respected journalist. No bounty can do that.”

“What do you need in return?” Freddie didn’t even bother to sound wary. Will doubted there was much she wouldn’t do to get the full picture, to get a chance to shape the narrative of Will and Hannibal’s disastrous relationship. Will wondered if she felt like she was making a deal with the devil. Will himself did, but he needed her help.

“There’ve been murders in Rio de Janeiro. Seven people in a few days. I need access to case files, autopsies. Everything the cops have.”

“And how exactly would I get those?”

“You’re a talented investigative journalist with no moral compass. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“And if I ask why you need this information?”

“What goes on after my death isn’t part of the deal. Do you agree?”

“Yes.” Freddie didn’t hesitate at all. “Can I reach you at this number?”

Keeping the phone was a huge risk. If Freddie went to Jack, they’d tack the phone to Ipanema within hours. Will had to trust that she’d look out for her own self-interest, at least for now. And if she sold a version of the story that they were dead, she would hardly want to encourage events that would make her book out of date.

“You can,” Will said at last. “Time’s an issue here.”

“Relax while you wait, hit the beach. Rio’s supposed to be amazing.”

“I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to tell me about it.” Will wasn’t stupid enough to encourage a face-to-face meeting, or to admit where he was, even if they both knew it was a charade.

“Looking forward to it.” Freddie hung up.

Will put the phone back on his nightstand and tried to settle down into sleep. He knew it would be full of nightmares, but reality had the potential to be worse. If Will had misjudged Freddie, he’d wake up to a SWAT team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick housekeeping note: It's [National Novel Writing Month](http://nanowrimo.org/)! Which means I've started a new (original) project, and one of several things might happen in regards to this fic:
> 
> \- I might continue to write it at the current rate, which means usual updates all month.  
> \- I might become completely consumed with my new novel, and not work on anything else, in which case this fic will be on hiatus until December.  
> \- I might just finish the fic in a flurry of inspiration, and update twice weekly or something.
> 
> No matter what happens, I won't be abandoning this story! I'm very excited about some upcoming chapters, so even if this is the last update for a month, don't worry! It will be back.


	10. Chapter 10

Will woke to the scent of breakfast cooking, what smelled like French toast and some kind of frying meat. He knew instantly it was a peace offering from Hannibal, a small apology for pushing Will the previous night. Will felt a spike of guilt shoot through his middle. He’d risked Hannibal’s life—Will had no illusions about what would happen if the FBI got custody of them. There would be an accident that neither of them would survive. Though Will knew Freddie Lounds was the only option if they wanted a chance to catch the killer, he still regretted not running his idea to contact her by Hannibal. The knowledge that Hannibal would forgive him only made Will’s guilt worse. Hannibal would be angry for a while, but not long. If he could forgive Will as monumental a betrayal as plotting to have him arrested, a minor discretion was nothing. Not asking Hannibal, or even warning him before that he planned to risk both their lives, had been taking advantage of how deeply Hannibal cared for Will.

Rubbing his eyes, Will got out of bed. He got dressed on autopilot, then opened the door to a rush of excited dogs. Will took longer than necessary to sit on the floor and play with them before he finally made his way to the kitchen to face Hannibal.

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal said in his usual pleasant tone.

“We need to talk.” Will forced the words out before he could convince himself otherwise. If he waited until after breakfast, he would rationalize delaying until after he took the dogs out for a walk, then continue to delay it until it made more sense not to tell him at all.

Hannibal’s content smile faded into something serious. He put two beautifully plated breakfast dishes onto the small kitchen table. He’d already set it. There was even a little bouquet of wildflowers in the center.

“Please,” Hannibal gestured to one of the chairs in front of one of the plates. “Sit down.”

Will did, wishing he could rewind time and undo his hasty decision to call Freddie. “I decided you were right.” That seemed the best way to cushion the blow, starting off with a little flattery.

“About pursuing the killer?”

“Yes.” Will ignored the food in front of him, even though it smelled amazing, and he was starving. “We need more access if we’re going to catch him ourselves. So I called Freddie Lounds.”

Hannibal had a world-class poker face, but Will could read it well enough to see the surprise, anger, and disappointment flash across his features. “If you contacted her, there’s only one thing you could give as an incentive for her to refrain from going to Jack Crawford.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you first. I should have.”

“You’re right to assume Freddie Lounds will choose the false hope of interviewing us over a mere monetary payout.”

“False hope?”

“We’ll kill her, of course. I’m sure she’ll take pains to prevent it, but she’ll be too blinded by her avarice to avoid falling into a trap.”

“We’re not killing her, Hannibal.” Will’s voice brokered no arguments. “She’s, well, a bit unpleasant, but she doesn’t deserve to die for that.”

“I intended to make an end of her long ago.” Hannibal met his stare for a long moment, then something in his eyes shifted. “Alright. But we’re certainly not making good on the promise. I don’t want to tell my life story to someone like her.”

“Only to someone like me, right?” Will gave him a wry smile. “And the deal only covered me. You don’t even have to see her.”

“You plan to keep your word?”

“It’s only polite. She might be useful to us again. I’d prefer not to burn that particular bridge. She strikes me as the highly vindictive type. If we betray her and keep her alive, she’ll run to Margot or Jack and give them everything she knows.”

“We’ll be long gone from Rio by then.”

“Still, she has proof we’re both alive. Right now no one believes Jack or Margot. But we don’t want the entire FBI coming after us.”

“Very well.” Hannibal picked up his fork, ending their conversation.

Still feeling the echoes of guilt, Will began eating, too, despite his roiling nerves.

 

 

 

Hannibal stared out at the view from their balcony, his mind at peace. The killer hadn’t taken more lives in the past two days, at least not that Hannibal had read about in the news, and life in Rio had fallen into a pleasant routine. He preferred the city to the countryside—it had far more conveniences and luxuries—and even Will seemed happy. The dogs had been a stroke of genius, if Hannibal could be so bold as to say. They kept Will occupied and entertained. He needed something to take care of like that. He needed a cause, too.

The breeze was hot and humid, like breath from a giant, but the sky was clear blue and the distant hills and mountains brilliantly green. The colors hardly seemed possible in this temperature, but the area was more than wet enough to keep the plants from drying out in the midsummer heat. Still, he missed the stark edges and the chill of winter in New England. He missed the way snow fell and gathered around the walls of his home. He imagined a version of his life that included Will living there with him. If only they could have been together as they were now, without the trouble of being wanted criminals. But things had happened as they’d happened. Nothing could undo it.

Baleia scratched at the balcony door, wanting to come out and join him in his reverie. The bars of the railing were spaced to widely for her, and she might fall through, so Hannibal went back inside and knelt by her, scratching her behind the ears.

Will had fallen asleep on the couch, a book on his chest. The late afternoon light streamed in an painted his face in angelic glow. His chest rose and fell with a rhythm that made Hannibal himself sleepy just watching.

With Baleia at his heels, Hannibal walked into the kitchen. The chime of a cell phone stopped him. It was Will’s, sitting on the counter, charging. Only one other person knew the number.

Hannibal answered it.

“Oh my, Dr. Lecter. I wasn’t expecting to hear your voice. I do hope this doesn’t mean you’ve murdered poor Will.”

“He’s asleep. Do you have the information?”

“I do. Wasn’t easy to get, either. I need an email address to send it to. Or would you prefer a dead drop?”

“If you’re in Rio, you’re too far away for a physical copy.” He told her one of his many email addresses, one the FBI never had access to. "Thank you for your timely response.”

“I am good at what I do, no matter what you may think of me. Can I talk to Will? I’m a little worried.”

“No. Goodbye, Ms. Lounds.” He ended the call, a little annoyed at just hearing her voice. She was a loathsome creature, but Will was right when he said they had no other choice if they wanted all the pertinent case information.

Hannibal logged into the email address he’d given Freddie. Seconds later, the files arrived. All the names were in Portuguese. He skimmed them, occasionally petting Baleia. When he was finished, he decided to wake Will, lovely though he was when he was able to sleep without the weight of nightmares creasing his brow.

“Freddie Lounds has sent us the information,” he said to Will after he’d woken up enough to understand human speech.

“Faster than I thought.” Will took the tablet and began reading. “I’ll need help translating a lot of this. I don’t know many technical terms in Portuguese.”

Ever obliging, Hannibal sat next to Will and read the files with him over his shoulder, pausing frequently to explain a word or concept to Will. As the minutes passed, he may have gotten a little closer, but if Will minded, he didn’t say anything about it.

 

 

 

 

Will spent most of the afternoon and evening going over the files, trying to find a connection, the one thread that would bind the victims together and let him know the last essential detail of the killer’s profile. Then Will switched to a new file and was shocked to see new pictures of a crime scene he hadn’t witnessed before.

“There’s been a third set of murders.” Will breathed, his pulse increasing from anticipation. Perhaps this would be the final connection he needed. “Freddie could’ve led with that.”

The photographs were of a much higher quality than the amateur ones of the first murder. Five victims this time, an increase of one per set with each scene. The killer was definitely getting bolder. And angrier. These victims’ chests looked like hamburger meat from all the stab wounds, and their expensive clothing was stained with blood from nearly head to toe. Will thought some of the victims might have been siblings. Two men and one woman looked very similar in the nose, eyes, and mouths. According to the file, they were from England, three of them white, two with darker skin tones and features that suggested they might be of Indian descent. The killings were about country of origin, then, not race—or perhaps it was all tourists, and these just happened to be the lucky winners who crossed paths with the killer and made a bad impression.

The display of the bodies had also gained some panache. The killer was learning, and quickly. He was intelligent and careful, though, leaving no physical evidence. Under other circumstances, Will thought Hannibal might have been impressed, but at the moment he only seemed eager to meet the killer so Will himself could satisfy his darker urges. So they could satisfy them together.

The sport of choice this time was diving. Their bodies were arranged in a much more easily identifiable pose this time, bodies stretched out on the ground in perfect arcs, hands pointed as if they were about to hit the water. The officer who wrote the report had even noticed, and connected the dots of the last two murders. He didn’t mention the Olympics, but Will was sure one detective or other would notice, and they’d be up to speed.

The autopsy reports revealed nothing new, no piece of evidence that rang any bells in Will’s mind. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought Hannibal himself had committed these, but Hannibal wouldn’t send him on a wild goose chase just to pull the rug out from under him at the end. And no so-called surgical trophies had been taken. In fact, as far as Will could tell, the killer didn’t take anything at all from them. Unless he’d stolen something insignificant from their persons that the cops wouldn’t notice missing. But wallets, purses, keys, they were all in place. The killer didn’t mind the bodies being identified, which was unusual, and dangerous. He must’ve been very confident that none of the people could have been traced back to him.

“When you chose who to kill, the members of your sounders,” Will began, turning to Hannibal, “How did you know there was no chance of them being traced back to you?”

“I was very careful not to leave a significant paper trail connecting me to anyone. I paid cash for services when the person providing the service was discourteous to me. And I waited long enough when a record was unavoidable that my name would be lost among hundreds or thousands.”

“That’s how Miriam Lass found you. The one little record. No telling how many names she dug through.”

“She was very dedicated. I hated to have to cut her career short.”

“Last I heard she was well on the road to recovering from what you did to her.” Will turned his attention back to the file on the tablet. Hannibal's past transgressions weren’t important now. He forced his mind back to the killer’s way of thinking. He was hunting them somehow, probably at nightclubs. All the victims had faded stamps on their hands, though they were from different places.

“Where are the victims staying?” Will asked himself aloud, flipping through the many open tabs. There was no connection there, either. Their hotels were all in different neighborhoods. “We know how he’s subduing them.” The autopsies all found traces of Flunitrazepam, a date-rape drug. “And we know why he chooses them.” Their behavior set the killer off, offended him. But it wasn’t rudeness this man found offensive, unlike Hannibal. The killer found expensive revelry and wastefulness to be, as Hannibal might put it, unspeakably ugly. Why should millions starve when others squandered resources?

“But how does he lure them? Where does he cross paths with them?” If it were somewhere as obvious as his place of work, the killer would have been caught already. It was somewhere he went unofficially, so nothing could connect him. But the victims wouldn’t have been so careful to mask their movements.

In the police reports, Will found detailed financial information on all the victims. Will carefully read each victim’s bank and credit card statements. There was overlap in many places, all high-profile tourist destinations. The police were likely chasing their tails and interviewing all the employees of those places. But he was too smart for that. Too careful to hunt in his own backyard.

He hunted in someone else’s. Someone he knew gave him unofficial access to hunting grounds, an unwitting accomplice. The killer wouldn’t have any close relationships, but he might convince someone he was close to them. And he took advantage of that perceived friendship. Finding that connection would be next to impossible, unless the killer missed something himself.

Will rubbed his eyes. It was well past midnight now. He needed sleep. Even Hannibal turned the pages of his book with less frequency, though he might have just been lost in his own thoughts and not exhausted like Will was. He got up and started making coffee. The bubbling sound of brewing and the sharp scent of fresh coffee in the air roused his mind again. He decided to go over the physical evidence one more time.

Their personal belongings were standard: cell phones, wallets, purses, cash, credit cards, hotel keys—it was all there. Will frowned, glancing at the list again. One of the first victims didn’t have a hotel key on him, even though, according to the credit card statements of that set, they all had their own rooms. He could have lost it, but still, he would have gotten a replacement as soon as possible.

Intuition pulled him to the reports about the victims’ hotel rooms. The one who’d been missing his key didn’t stick out to the police who searched for evidence of the killer, but the officer who wrote the report did note that the room was in a state of disarray. No other report made mention of the cleanliness of the rooms. Messy hotel rooms weren’t uncommon, so the police likely assumed the victim was just a slob. But Will knew the killer had been there, searching for something. But why only one victim’s room? What was special about this one? The killer had taken the key off his body, probably when he took trophies from the others.

Maybe the trophy itself was missing, or something the killer knew would lead the police to him. So he took the key, searched the room. Either the evidence wasn’t there, or he’d found it, because the police were no closer to catching him than when it began.

Two cups of coffee later, Will hadn’t made any more progress. He picked up his empty mug and tried to stand, but Hannibal caught his wrist.

“Perhaps we should retire for the evening and try again tomorrow. If we’re lucky, Freddie might have files from a fresh crime scene by then.”

“More dead bodies is the opposite of what I want, Hannibal,” Will chided, but he couldn’t argue against the idea of sleep. Dawn was fast approaching. His whole body felt like it had been wrung out.

Hannibal still held Will’s wrist. He moved his thumb over the bare skin, lightly enough to send shivers through Will. It made him momentarily forget his exhaustion, and the seeming futility of his work on the case.

Will put the coffee mug in the kitchen sink and took Hannibal’s advice, hoping his sleep would be deep enough to prevent dreams. It wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I'm happy to announce I've finished the draft of this story and am well into writing its sequel. Updates will now be every Sunday and Wednesday.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be aware the rating on this fic has changed, but don't read too much into it (yet.)

The files Freddie Lounds sent Will were extensive. In the occasional idle moment between documents, he wondered how she’d gotten her hands on them. Maybe he’d ask her when she called in his end of the deal.

Included in the various reports and crime scene photos were complete uploads of everything that had been on the victims’ phones, including information about their social media activity. The cops had poured over that, hoping to find some detail in a tweet or Instagram picture that would magically reveal the killer. Will, performing what he thought of as due diligence, though he was no longer technically on the side of the law, looked through the social media as well, paying special attention to the third victim, Jason Murray. Nothing of interest popped out at him, so he moved on to the call history.

Murray didn’t make many calls and sent hundreds of texts. His data usage was also through the roof. Will checked the uploads of the man’s photos. He automatically backed them up to the cloud, and he’d taken nearly a thousand since getting to Rio a week before his death. Will scrolled through them. Most were selfies, or pictures of tourist spots or lovely buildings and trees. Murray wasn’t a terrible photographer for an amateur. Strewn through the usual pictures were snapshots of receipts, fliers, business cards, tickets. Murray must have been careless with keeping papers. He took photos instead, so he couldn’t lose them.

Wading through the photos was so tedious Will almost missed it. Murray had taken a picture of both sides of a business card, one with information about a hotel he wasn’t staying at, the kind of thing they kept on the front desk for guests, and on the back was a handwritten room number and time. Handwriting wasn’t an exact science, but the letters looked masculine to Will. The picture was near the end. Murray and his friends had died around 4 o’clock in the morning, but the picture reel stopped around 10 o’clock the previous night, six hours before. As far as the time stamps on the other photos suggested, Murray only refrained from taking pictures that long when he was asleep. The last photo was of the three victims in front of a nightclub, waiting in line to get in. He hadn’t gone to sleep anytime soon after that.

His phone battery could have died, and Will would have accepted that as the most likely option, but the time on the business card read _11pm_. Someone had given him a hotel name and room number, and a time to meet there. Will was certain Murray and the others had gone there together. A party, probably, where they’d been drugged, dragged off, and murdered.

“You noticed something new?” Hannibal had been watching him from the armchair on the other side of the living room. It was afternoon, and the heat of the day had crept in around Will without his notice.

“They were lured to a private party at the Copacabana Palace.” Will crossed the room and showed Hannibal the photo of the business card. “Someone there drugged them and got them out without anyone seeing.”

“The security footage would show us the killer.”

“But if Freddie asks a detective to get it, they’ll look at it, too. It’s as good as handing them the lead. We need to find who was in the room.”

“The killer wouldn’t have booked it himself, or paid for it.”

“But he’s connected to whoever did. Not that it matters—we can’t get that information, either.”

“May I?” Hannibal held his hand out for the tablet. Will handed it to him. He was so distracted by his frustrated thoughts that he hardly noticed what Hannibal did.

A minute or so later, Hannibal set the tablet down and stood.

“Where are you going?” Will snapped, short tempered. He wasn’t used to being so restricted in his access to important resources.

“To pack an overnight bag. I’ve gotten a room in the Palace. By the time we get a cab to take us there, we can check in.”

“What?” Will followed Hannibal to the doorway of Hannibal’s room. “They aren’t booked solid?”

“Last-minute cancellations do happen.”

“Probably helps that it’s a Tuesday.” Will hovered on the threshold. Somehow entering Hannibal’s private space was unthinkable to him. “Will we find more information there? We can’t risk making an impression.”

“I’m certain we’ll be discreet.” Hannibal put his small suitcase on his bed and gave Will a fond look. “And if our efforts produce no results, at least it will be enjoyable to get away for a night.”

“We’re just moving from one corner of paradise to another.” Despite his pessimism, Will did agree that a short stay in a famous hotel might be, well, _romantic_. He didn’t quite know how he felt about that, though.

“Changes of scenery can help facilitate mental processes. Perhaps when we arrive, you’ll be struck with sudden inspiration.”

“We’ll catch the killer, murder him, and be home in time for dinner.”

“Even if we are immediately successful, there would be no need to waste a perfectly good hotel room.” Hannibal’s tone held no innuendo or ulterior motives, but his words made heat rise in Will anyway.

“Guess I should go pack.”

 

 

 

Their suite was on the fourth floor and overlooked the ocean. The view was gorgeous from the balcony, and Hannibal took a few moments to admire the ceaseless motion of the waves before he turned the lion’s share of his attention to darker matters. Their room was ideal, at least in theory, because it was only a few doors down from the room number written on the business card.

“If the killer is still planning to lure victims here,” Will said, sitting in a chair by the window in the living room, “we have hours before anyone arrives. Do you have a plan? Or are we going to spend the whole afternoon and night staring through the peephole?”

Even in a bad mood Will amused Hannibal. He seemed incapable of being irritated with Will for any length of time. “That would be a last resort. Until nightfall, we can relax.”

“You sound like Freddie.” Will stood, restless. “Next you’ll be suggesting we hit the beach, go for a swim.”

Hannibal decided not to rise to Will’s bait of comparing him to the loathsome Ms. Lounds. “Swimming in the ocean adds another layer of danger, one you can’t imitate in tame water. But we should avoid crowds whenever possible.”

“Might as well order room service while we wait, then.”

“I’d hoped you might accompany me to dinner later.” Hannibal had left the balcony door ajar. A strong gust of wind ruffled Will’s hair.

“Are you asking me on a date, Dr. Lecter?”

As so often happened from time to time, Hannibal couldn’t read Will’s reaction. This was another exciting occasion in which Will would surprise him. “I am, yes.”

“Seems a little—” Will faltered, unable to find the right word.

“Puerile?”

“Pedestrian. Hard to imagine you on a date like anyone else. Like we’re normal.”

“Most living things require sustenance. If you prefer we share a meal with no romantic subtext, I’d be happy to keep it merely friendly.”

“No.” Will moved forward, stopping a foot from Hannibal. “I don’t mind the romance. I’d like to try something normal. I’m just surprised you offered.”

“I’m happy to offer you anything you need or want, Will.” The air between them was charged with electric tension as Will stared into Hannibal’s eyes.

“Dinner sounds great.” Will stepped back, turned away. “I’m going to look at the files again. See if I missed something.”

Hannibal watched Will’s retreat with amusement, wondering where he should take him for their first official date.

 

 

 

At 8 o’clock on the dot, Will and Hannibal stepped out of the cab in front of Mr. Lam, a Chinese restaurant on the north side of the Lagoa. Will had been too preoccupied with his thoughts to wonder where Hannibal was taking him. He’d expected something more traditionally Brazilian.

“Interesting choice.” Will couldn’t remember the last time he’d had Chinese food, unless one of the esoteric dishes Hannibal had cooked for him had been Chinese in origin.

“By all accounts the food is excellent, though the owner is a little scandalous. If you would prefer somewhere else—”

“No. This is great.” Will felt awkward, almost shy as they walked into the restaurant. The sensation didn’t leave even when they’d been seated. He’d had dinner with Hannibal in far more intimate settings before. So why was his stomach full of butterflies?

The first glass of wine settled his nerves, and after that, he and Hannibal passed an enjoyable meal. Their conversation was as layered with meaning and yet as easy as always. They didn’t speak of the killer, as if it were taboo.

“Where do you think they went?” Will asked after a natural lull in the conversation. He didn’t have to speak Chiyoh and Bedelia’s names aloud.

“I’ve yet to give it much thought, if I’m being perfectly honest.” Hannibal sipped his wine, pausing before to savor the bouquet. “Any number of far-flung places, I’m sure. Are you in a hurry to find them?”

“I never want to see either of them again. If _I’m_ being perfectly honest,” Will added wryly.

“Some debts must be settled.”

“And some aren’t worth the trouble.” Will felt a wave of misgiving, a strange apprehension. A fear on the behalf of another. He wished he hadn’t broached the subject at all.

After dinner, they returned to their apartment to walk and feed the dogs before going to the hotel to lie in wait for the illusive killer. All the peace and contentment that had come over Will during their date was gone once they were back in the room. It would be a long night, and it would end in a great deal of physical activity if they were lucky. The alternative was levels of boredom approaching despair. At least the view of the dark ocean was distracting enough to keep Will from pacing a hole in the carpet.

He watched the twinkling lights of boats as they moved across the water until it was late enough for the killer to be setting his trap.

Hours passed in a restless haze. Stake-outs really weren’t Will’s forte. He missed being able to rely on FBI agents or cops to do this kind of thing. Hannibal didn’t seem to mind, or if he did, he hid it well.

Around midnight, Hannibal rose and walked towards the door to the hall. “If I don’t return in fifteen minutes, come after me.”

“What?” Will didn’t have time fore more questions before Hannibal was gone. Will rushed to the door, peeking out after him. He was down the hall, knocking on the door to 412, the room the first victims had gone to before their deaths.

Will wasn’t surprised Hannibal was making such a bold and dangerous move. His whole life Hannibal had been beating absurd odds and dodging dangers that would have killed anyone else.

A full minute passed and no one came to the door. Hannibal pressed his ear to the wood for a moment, then returned.

“It appears to be empty.”

“He might have moved to another hotel. That would be the smart thing, move around each time. Avoid falling into a pattern.”

“Or he’s not on the hunt tonight.”

They stayed awake until 3 am. After that, it seemed unlikely someone would risk moving unconscious people so close to dawn. When Will started to nod off sitting up, he called it.

Their room had only one king-sized bed, but Will didn’t even comment as he stripped down to a t-shirt and boxers. He was too exhausted to worry about many things, and his mind was caught up in the nightmarish landscape of another murderer. Hannibal would be a perfect gentleman, like always, whether or not Will asked him to.

 

 

 

 

Sometime in the early morning hours, Will drifted into wakefulness and realized he’d migrated to the center of the bed. Hannibal’s arm was slung lightly over Will’s torso, their bodies curved together. Will could feel Hannibal’s soft breaths on his neck.

A pleasant shiver ran through him. Will wished he could simply drift back to sleep, but his body had other plans. As the room grew gradually brighter, Will’s thoughts continued to circle the same ideas until the images were impossible to ignore. He could wake Hannibal right now, with a kiss, with more—

As quietly as he could, Will slipped out of the bed and crept to the bathroom, hiding behind a closed door. He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, judgment at himself clouding his eyes, before he turned on the shower and stripped. Steam billowed around him as he stepped under the scalding spray of water.

Alone, or at least in a reasonably private place, Will let his imagination run wild in the directions it had been aching to since he felt Hannibal’s strong, solid embrace. He was hard before he even touched himself, stroking slowly at first. He silenced the part of his mind that whispered he was fucked up for fantasizing about Hannibal. He recalled the way it had felt to kiss Hannibal while blood was still sticky on his hands. He toyed with the idea of going back to bed and pressing his lips to every inch of Hannibal’s skin.

His breath came more quickly through parted lips, and his hand moved over his cock with the same rhythm. What would Hannibal taste like? Better yet, what would his mouth look like with Will’s cock inside it?

The image sent Will over the edge in a sudden rush. He came with a sharp intake of breath. Leaning against the slick tile, Will waited for his pulse to settle down. Heat from more than just the water temperature flushed his cheeks.

He expected to feel shame once the high of his orgasm faded. But his skin still tingled with anticipation when he thought about Hannibal’s hands on him, about Hannibal inside him. He stayed in the shower trying to decide if he should wake Hannibal or not until his skin was pink and the bathroom walls were dripping condensation.

In the end he couldn’t bring himself, couldn’t gather the courage. His imagination was fantastic, but what if reality didn’t compare? What if he tried sex with another man and didn’t care for it?

Ultimately, he didn’t want to disappoint Hannibal. No matter how often he assured Will that he was fine with whatever level of physical intimacy Will wanted, he didn’t think Hannibal would be truly content with hand-holding. Not forever.

He wanted Hannibal, or he was fairly certain he did. But now wasn’t a great time for such a monumental distraction. Will dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist before leaving the bathroom.

When Will emerged into the bedroom, Hannibal was already awake, calling room service for breakfast. Will felt self-conscious with a bare chest and water dripping off his hair, but Hannibal hardly spared him a glance before politely turning away. Will gathered some clothes and retreated back into the bathroom to dress, wishing he weren’t such a coward.

 

 

 

After a breakfast during which Will couldn’t so much as look at Hannibal without feeling his face heat up, Will decided the dogs must be in desperate need of a walk and more food, so he left, insisting Hannibal stay and relax. The dogs were Will’s responsibility, after all. He practically ran out of the room.

Wolf and Baleia were ecstatic to see him. He spent an hour walking them and playing with them, then decided he couldn’t avoid Hannibal forever. It was foolish of him to feel so guilty over such a natural thing. Hannibal probably would have been beyond pleased to know that Will had thought about him while masturbating. Perhaps next time Will would invite him to watch—

He stopped that train of thought and locked the apartment door behind him. Wolf whined on the other side, but Will ignored that, too. They’d be home soon enough. The hotel lead hadn’t panned out, but they were closer than the police. The next crime scene might shed the right ray of light. Maybe.

Will thought about various pieces of evidence as he rode back to the hotel. He slipped into an elevator just before the door shut and tried to hit the button for the fourth floor, but it was already lit. The only other passenger in the elevator was a man in a bellhop uniform. Will gave him a polite half-smile without meeting his eyes. He missed his glasses, but they’d had no chance to go to an optometrist. It was too dangerous, anyway. Maybe he could convince Freddie to get him some, somehow. No telling what she’d ask for that favor.

Beside him, the bellhop seemed nervous. His shoulders were stiff, and he kept shooting glances at Will.

_Shit, shit, shit_ , Will thought. _He recognizes me._ He needed to get to Hannibal, then get the hell out of here. Probably out of town entirely. Out of the country.

Will chanced meeting the other man’s eye, but what he saw wasn’t recognition. The man was jumpy, nervous, but not about Will himself. He kept looking at his watch. Sweat trickled down his hairline, though the elevator was cool to Will. He saw a small stack of business cards protruding from the man’s back pocket.

A chill shot through Will, along with the sense of the entire world shifting, clicking into place. Normally he loved the feeling, the cathartic release that came with solving every angle of a mystery. This was the killer. Will had misjudged him. He’d expected a cool, collected psychopath, not someone so young and inexperienced.

As the doors slid open, Will saw a shadow on the man’s hand, the faded outline of the same nightclub stamp the most recent victims had. He was certain.

The killer nearly sprinted out of the elevator, and Will followed him at a normal pace, pretending to walk back to his room. He rounded a corner and stopped, stepping back to watch the bellhop open room 412 and creep inside. Once the door was shut, Will hurried to their room.

“Hannibal?” He glanced into the living room, bedroom, and bath. No one was here. He’d have to do this part alone. Will wasn’t afraid—the kid had been about to jump out of his skin. Will had a sizable pocket knife. That would be enough to subdue him until Hannibal came back.

Will strolled down the hall, hands in his pockets, and knocked on the door to 412. It opened a crack, and the bellhop peered out, suspicion clear on his features.

“Am I too early for the party?” Will asked, then roughly pushed the door open. The killer stumbled back, suspicion turning to panic, but Will grabbed him, pressing his hand over the man’s mouth before he could scream. “Found you.” Will gave him an icy smile as he kicked the door closed behind him.

Using his forward momentum, Will forced the man to stumble backwards until his back was against the wall. In his periphery, Will saw three people lying strewn about, probably just unconscious, since he didn’t see blood. He stifled his interest. There’d be time to ask the man about his time-line for drugging victims.

Something hard smashed into the back of Will’s skull, and he staggered, his hands falling from the bellhop. Just before his vision went dark, he saw the shadow of another person loom over him. When had he fallen to the floor? That became the most important question, until he asked himself another one—why hadn’t he anticipated two killers working together?

Apparently that sort of thing was catching around here.


	12. Chapter 12

When Hannibal strolled back to their room, after a somewhat successful attempt at charming the woman at the front desk in the hope of getting some pertinent information from her in the future, his instincts immediately began screaming at him that something was amiss. The door wasn’t closed completely. It hadn’t latched, and opened with a slight push. He’d been sure he’d checked it was locked when he left.

“Will?” His voice sounded hollow. He knew Will wasn’t there. But the faint scent of Will’s aftershave and dog hair lingered. Will had been here, and had left again. Looking for Hannibal himself?

A sense of unease grew inside him. He’d lived too long and too dangerous a life to ignore his instincts. Without pausing to think things through, he rushed down the hall and tried the handle for room 412. It was locked. He shouldered the door, hitting it hard, but it didn’t budge. Probably all he could safely try. There were cameras in the hallways, after all.

Anger bubbled in his chest. He was certain Will had confronted whoever had been in this room, and they’d gotten the best of him somehow. Hannibal returned to their room and quickly packed all their things, then left with the suitcases.

He had no way of knowing where the killer would have taken Will, or how long he’d wait to end Will’s life. The mere thought of such a thing made Hannibal’s hands tremble in an unusual way. It took him a moment to recognize the fear for what it was.

He got a cab outside the hotel and paid the man triple the rate to get him to their apartment in a few minutes. Once there, Hannibal sat down and forced himself to focus.

Will Graham, the most singular and important person in the world to Hannibal, was gone. So far all the crime scenes had been in abandoned buildings that were under heavy construction. It stood to reason that’s where he’d take Will. But that hardly narrowed things down. Hannibal pulled up the neatly labeled map the police had compiled of the murder scenes. They were all in high population areas frequented by tourists. No one had been found in an area that was off the beaten path for visitors, so Hannibal could narrow things down a little.

He wished Will were here with him. Talking things through with him always helped. The entire world seemed a clearer, brighter place with Will by his side. But flights of fancy wouldn’t help.

Baleia whined at his feet, but he ignored her. She could probably smell the sharp scent of fear oozing from his pores. Hannibal had the wherewithal to feel chagrined with himself for falling into such an emotional pitfall, but he could no more stop it than he could stop the path of the sun across the sky.

Life without Will would be a pale imitation at best. He couldn’t let some two-bit fledgling killer take Will away from him. Hannibal gripped the tablet so tightly his knuckles turned white. He closed his eyes and took a few steady breaths.

Will wasn’t helpless, and might be able to get the upper hand on the killer and free himself. All wasn’t lost, not yet. In the mean time, Hannibal could narrow locations down.

The killer had always chosen places with large empty areas, with plenty of space to stage his scenes. They were also fairly secluded. Hannibal frowned. Until now, all the scenes had been staged at night, when the construction crews were gone. But it wasn’t lunchtime yet, on a weekday. Most of the buildings under construction would be teeming with people.

The killer would have to go somewhere that wasn’t actively being remodeled. That narrowed things significantly. Finding somewhere in a tourist neighborhood that was empty would be a challenge. Without detailed financial records and lists of permits, Hannibal couldn’t know which buildings were empty without physically going to each one. He didn’t have time for that. So he’d have to follow the same path of thinking the killer used.

Though he was no Will Graham—as if anyone could even come close—Hannibal could manage well enough. The killer hunted at night in areas frequented by tourists in their twenties, likely only at nightclubs—

Hannibal stood up. That was one type of place that would be deserted this time of day, probably not even any staff would be there until closer to evening. He glanced at the lists of clubs the victims had gone to, making a note of each one and its location. He’d start with the one closest to the Palace, then move outward.

At last the fear that had been coiling itself around his middle faded away, replaced with a sense of purpose. Rage threatened to overpower his calm rationality, but he kept a tight hold on it. He would be able to vent his anger soon enough.

 

 

 

Pain so intense it consumed Will’s world pulled him into consciousness. He wished it hadn’t. The back of his skull ached with every heartbeat, and nausea rose as the pain crescendoed. He forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly, and after a few minutes he no longer felt like he would vomit all over his shirt. After that, he took stock of the situation.

He was lying on his side, and his hands were bound behind him. Typical job, duct-tape wound so tightly his fingers were going numb. He began moving his arms immediately, trying to loosen the tape and tear himself free. That made his headache worse, but he didn’t stop.

The room was dark, but he could make out vague shapes in the gloom. A long bar stretched across one side of the large space. The floor beneath him was smooth, like a dance floor. He was in one of the nightclubs, then. That explained the lingering scent of stale sweat, too much perfume, and booze. It was doing wonders for his head.

Will tried to sit up, but the movement made him gasp with pain, and he nearly lost his breakfast. He gave it up after that and focused on getting his hands free. His ankles were similarly bound, but they’d be simple once his wrists were taken care of.

A door across the room slammed open, and Will’s first reaction was anger at the pain the noise caused. Only after the pounding in his head quieted did he bother to feel apprehension about who was walking towards him. Will heard low voices whispering, catching only the occasional word in Portuguese. “Awake,” and “murder” stood out.

“You should have drugged him, too,” said one of the voices at normal volume.

A small part of Will was proud he understood every word. His vocabulary had vastly improved since spending nearly every waking moment reading police files in the local language. The rest of him was concerned with tearing the duct-tape off his wrists without the killers noticing.

The one who’d spoken shone a beam of light on Will, and he flinched away from it, squeezing his eyes shut. When his stomach stopped roiling, he couldn’t resist snapping at them. “If you want me to throw up, do that again.”

“Your Portuguese isn’t bad, for an American.” The asshole put the light on Will’s face again.

“I have a very dedicated teacher.”

“How did you find us?” He switched to English that had only a faint trace of accent. His voice would have been pleasant to listen to, soft and mellow, if not for the head injury Will had sustained.

“Just lucky, I guess.” Both men were standing in front of him, so he slowly continued to move his wrists, hoping they wouldn’t notice the motion in his shoulders. _Keep them talking_. Maybe try to turn them against each other—that was the old standby, but hard to do without getting them alone. But everyone loved talking about themselves. He could imagine Hannibal’s look of long-suffering disdain about that fact. The poor guy had listened to idiots prattle on for years. It was a wonder more psychiatrists weren’t serial killers. “So, do you have a name?”

“We aren’t Bond villains. We’re not going to give you our names—”

“No, not your legal names. Do you have a name you want the press to call you? No one’s done it yet. Or at least, none have caught on. They’re just calling you the Rio serial killer.”

The other man spoke at last, his voice lower and less confident. Will was betting this was the bellhop. “We haven’t thought about it. Doesn’t matter. We’ll be remembered no matter what.”

“Tell that to the Tooth Fairy,” Will chuckled. “He didn’t get to name himself either. At least, he didn’t name himself first. And Tooth Fairy is the one they’ll remember. Embarrassing. Watch it, or you’ll get stuck with something idiotic.”

“We aren’t doing this to make ourselves look better. We’re not after personal fame—”

“You’ll get it either way. I know you want people to read your killings as political statements, as protests. But they won’t. All anyone will ever see is the work of a monster. Should have just stuck to blog posts.” Will knew he was crossing a line as he spoke, and he regretted it when Mr. Flashlight kicked him in the stomach. He finally threw up then, but at least he got some on that asshole’s shoes.

The murderers stepped back a few paces after that.

“What did you think was going to happen?” Will found it in himself to laugh, though it nearly split his skull in two. “Told you I was about to puke. You must not have done this sort of thing before.”

“We’ve killed twelve people—”

“Drugged people. You don’t know anything about subduing people with force. You’re lucky I didn’t die in the hotel. Head trauma is risky. Better idea to get a good choke hold and wait for them to pass out.”

“Who the hell are you? A cop? FBI?” Mr. Flashlight took a step forward.

“Just a concerned citizen.”

“Bullshit.” Something metallic flashed in the beam of light. “Who else is working with you?”

“I’m all alone.”

“You came to Rio alone? I don’t think so.”

The other man pulled Flashlight aside, and they retreated to the other side of the club. Will strained to listen, but couldn’t make out anything. He redoubled his efforts to get free. His hands had gone completely numb.

The killers’ conversation rose in volume to shouts.

“Fine,” Flashlight said, “We’ll get it over with and leave, wait until the heat dies down.” He was definitely holding a knife, and he was headed back to Will.

Something clattered to the floor, the sound muffled by at least one set of doors. It sounded like half the glasses in the back room shattered seconds after. Mr. Flashlight changed course, and both the men went behind the counter to investigate. Will almost felt sorry for them. With one last jerk, he ripped his wrists free and worked on his ankles.

Will stood, nearly stumbling as the pain increased tenfold. He pushed through it—he and headaches were old friends, after all—and slipped behind the bar, grabbing a heavy bottle as he entered the back room. It was just as dark as the rest of the building. Neither of the killers were visible. Will moved as silently as he could, past rows of shelving. His shoes crunched over broken glass and he grimaced.

Motion from the corner of his eye made him turn in time to dodge a clumsy stab. Mr. Flashlight was quick to recover, but not quick enough to dodge the bottle of tequila Will aimed at his head. It connecting with an incredibly satisfying thud, and Flashlight went down. Will wanted to give him a few kicks in the stomach for good measure, but he refrained. Physical exertion wasn’t very fun at the moment, and there was still one more person to take care of. He’d just made quite a bit of noise, too.

“Will?” The sound of Hannibal’s voice, filled with apprehension, made Will weak in the knees.

“Hannibal. Did you get the other one?”

“Not yet.” Hannibal moved towards Will as if to embrace him, but the killer got to Will first.

Arms circled around Will from behind, and the cold edge of a knife cut into his neck, almost hard enough to draw blood. Will wondered if this was how Abigail felt. In the dim light he could see Hannibal’s silhouette freeze.

“Your friend is still alive.” Hannibal spoke with absolute certainty, though he hadn’t actually checked. Will could have very well killed him. “If you want him to remain alive, let Will go.”

“I’m not an idiot.” The knife dug into his neck more, drawing blood. The pain was insignificant next to the pounding in Will’s head. “You’ll kill me the moment I release him.”

“You have my word I won’t. Think of it as an exchange of prisoners. We’ll go our way, you’ll be free to go your own.” Hannibal sounded so damn reasonable Will almost believed him. “No bloodshed. Everyone wins. The alternative is I’m the only one who walks away. No one wants that.”

Will still had the bottle of tequila in his hand, and he let it drop to the floor. It shattered, and the man holding him jumped. The knife slid across the side of Will’s neck, but he didn’t stop to worry about that as he grabbed the man’s wrist and wrenched it. By the time the knife hit the ground, Hannibal had crossed the space separating them and grabbed the killer in a choke hold.

“See?” Will panted as he held one hand to the wound on his neck. “This is how you knock someone out.” The cut was bleeding what felt like an alarming amount, but there was no arterial gushing, so Will knew he wouldn’t bleed out. He clamped his hand down tighter as blood slowly oozed through his fingers.

When both the killers were unconscious, Hannibal found the light and flipped it on. Will gasped in pain, suddenly blinded, but he felt Hannibal’s warm hands against his. Hannibal gently moved Will’s fingers away from the cut so he could examine it.

“It’s shallow.” Hannibal’s relief was apparent in his voice. “Wait here a moment while I find the first-aid kit.”

Will, at last able to open his eyes, nodded. He slowly picked up the knife and leaned against a counter, watching the two men carefully for signs of movement. They both looked so terribly young, around the same age as their victims. Will could imagine how they’d met, how they’d bonded over their mutual dissatisfaction with the power structures of the world. Their idle talk had turned to hypotheticals that turned to solid plans. How lucky one of them worked in a hotel and had access to empty rooms. That would have made it easy to lure victims in. But it was over, now. Will thought of the twelve dead, and of the several still living, in a drugged sleep, on the dance floor. He felt no pity for the men, and no remorse for what was about to happen to them.

Hannibal returned and bandaged Will’s neck, then examined Will for signs of concussion. He was fine other than a large knot on the back of his head. They spent a while carefully cleaning all the blood and vomit up with bleach, and Will dragged the murderers into the main room while Hannibal checked on the status of the would-be victims. They were all still solidly out.

When Hannibal slit Mr. Flashlight’s abdomen open, he woke up screaming. Will held him down while Hannibal carefully removed his liver. By the time Hannibal had put the organ safely in a small cooler they’d found and filled with ice, the man was dead. The remaining one was awake now. He begged for his life in the usual manner, but both Will and Hannibal ignored him. Hannibal took his heart and placed it in the cooler beside the liver.

They put the bodies side by side, arms stretched out, hands clasped, and created five interlocking rings out of their intestines. Will felt sorry for the people who would wake soon to the sight, but the message had to be delivered. The police would know these were the murderers they hunted, and Jack Crawford would know who’d put them down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun author trivia about this chapter: I had a migraine the entire time I wrote this, so if it seems like I belabored Will's headache, it was for the sake of realism. There's also something cathartic about giving a fictional character a worse time than you're having.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor content warning for this chapter for mentions of serial rape/date rape.

A humid breeze pulled Freddie Lounds’ carefully styled curls into a frizzy, tangled mess. She should have put it up, should have anticipated the humidity here. But the winters in New England were icy and dry. Cancún, Mexico, was a completely different story. She couldn’t imagine how hot it must be in the summer. Even now, after dark, it was still warm enough for short sleeves and a skirt.

The address Will Graham had given her led her to a bar that wasn’t too busy. It was still early on a Friday night, and the crowds hadn’t moved in yet. She walked inside and was pleased to find it clean, free of cigarette smoke. The bartender was friendly as he mixed her drink. She tipped him enough to pacify him for the next few hours that she’d be here, and turned to see Will Graham himself sitting in a corner booth, back to the wall so he could survey the entire bar.

A crooked smirk on her lips, Freddie approached him. She set her laptop bag and drink on the table, ignoring the latter. “I’m surprised you showed. I expected this to end up a personal vacation, not a work trip.”

“I made you a promise. You delivered, so here I am.” He practically spat out the words, clearly not happy to be here. But he _was_ here, in a public place, his slightly more diabolical half nowhere in sight.

“You should know if I don’t make a call within twenty-four hours, everything I know about you is going straight to Jack.”

“Don’t worry, Freddie. I talked him out of killing you. We agreed you might be useful again, distasteful though you are.” He was wearing glasses and hardly looked at her face.

“And where is Dr. Lecter? Will he be joining us?” Fear and eagerness warred inside her. Getting an interview with Lecter would be icing on the cake.

“He’s at a safe distance.”

“I’m not going to turn you in, don’t worry—”

“I didn’t say for his safety.”

Goosebumps rose on her arms and the back of her neck. Maybe it was better if Lecter stayed away.

As if he read her mind, Will continued, “If anyone could inspire a crime of passion, it would be you, Freddie.”

“Right.” She opened her laptop. The blank document was already up. She pulled a voice recorder from her bag and placed in on the table between them. The bar’s music was low enough it wouldn’t interfere. “Tell me when you’re ready to start.”

Will emptied the glass of amber liquid that had been sitting in front of him, then nodded. “Do you worst.” He gave her a humorless smile.

Freddie started with the beginning, filling in all the holes of the story. Will seemed hesitant to talk about Abigail Hobbs, but his eyes filled with a melancholy warmth when he spoke of her. He evaded several questions that involved Hannibal Lecter, insisting he was only at liberty to tell his own story. Any point that didn’t directly relate to Will himself, he clammed up about. Around the beginning of the Tooth Fairy murders, his eyes began to roam, and he seemed to lose interest. He stopped mid-sentence twice, and Freddie had to ask him the same question again.

“Is there somewhere else you need to be?” she snapped. He’d been very open with information, even about all the murders and other crimes he’d committed. But now he was almost evasive.

“Yes, actually,” Will slipped out of the booth and stood. “Just for a while. Wait here, I’ll be back.”

“What?” Freddie turned, shouted after him, but he disappeared into the larger late evening crowd and was gone. “Fantastic,” she muttered to herself, finally picking up her drink and sipping it. Would he actually be back? She wasn’t sure, but she herself had no other obligations until her flight home, so she reviewed her notes and began writing. From the opening sentence, she knew this book would make her wealthy and respected, as promised.

 

 

 

Will Graham had only seen the man at the bar slip something into the woman’s drink by chance. He’d been quick and skillful with the sleight of hand, and if Will hadn’t been studiously avoiding Freddie’s eyes he would have missed it. What felt like a thousand years ago, Hannibal had said, on the streets of Boston outside Bedelia’s house, _fortune favors the bold_. But a more accurate sentiment was that fortune favored Hannibal Lecter, and everyone Hannibal cared about. Will could hardly focus on the interview after that.

Now he prowled down a dark street, a good distance behind the man, who was almost certainly a serial rapist, and his new intended victim. Not long after Will left the bar, Hannibal fell into step beside him, as if they were just taking a pleasant evening stroll.

“Done already?” Hannibal asked.

“No.” Will motioned to the two people he was following. “Something came up. Do we have plans for dinner tomorrow?”

“I had intended to go to the butcher tomorrow morning to find something.”

“Don’t bother. He’ll do.”

“On such short notice? Are we living so dangerously now?”

“Cancún’s getting boring anyway. We can leave tomorrow.” They’d sailed here from Rio several weeks ago, but Will was already feeling restless. Maybe tourist towns just weren’t for him.

“Where would you like to go?”

Will shrugged. “Dealer’s choice. As long as—” he paused, swallowed. “As long as we’re together, I don’t care.” He met Hannibal’s eye, feeling his chest tighten.

Ahead of them, the man made a turn, and they hurried to catch up. Two blocks later, their prey helped the stumbling woman into a motel room. The room was on the ground floor, so Will knocked on it moments after the man had shut it. When he answered, the man’s face was contorted in anger.

It didn’t take long for the anger to turn to fear.

“Déjà vu,” Will commented to Hannibal as they restrained the man. The woman was on one of the two double beds, delirious but with a steady pulse.

“Would you care to do the honors?” Hannibal asked, holding out the knife handle to Will. They’d stuffed a washcloth in the man’s mouth so he couldn’t scream, and tied his limbs to the second bed with his own rope.

Will stared down at the struggling thing on the dingy duvet. Blond hair, blue eyes, conventionally attractive, this monster in human form. But he was less than human, worse than the most senselessly violent animal, because he should have known better. Will took the knife from Hannibal and showed teeth in a humorless grin. Together they would turn this ugly blight into something beautiful.

“Show me what to do.” Will’s knowledge of dressing game extended only to removing organs as a waste product. He didn’t have experience in keeping them intact.

With a light touch, Hannibal guided Will’s hand along the right path to open the abdominal cavity, instructing him on how deep to go, and how much pressure to use. Blood welled slowly with the first motion, then flowed freely, streaking the man’s pale skin with scarlet, soaking into the polyester bedding. His muffled screams rose in pitch, like a chorus member lifting his voice into the finale.

Inside a body and covered in blood, the organs were hard to distinguish at first. Hannibal pointed out the kidney and where to cut. The man went into shock and died of cardiac arrest, but not before Will showed him the kidney he’d removed.

“Do you think Jack would get the joke if we put him in the bathtub with ice? I mean, we _are_ in Mexico.”

“No need to be childish in provoking him.” Hannibal put the kidney in the small ice bucket. His clothes were void of blood, so he went to fill the makeshift cooler from the machine outside.

Will began to wash the blood off his hands in the bathroom sink. His shirt was spattered with gore, but his reflection gave him a satisfied, genuine smile.

When he walked out of the bathroom he found Hannibal rifling through the dead man’s pockets. He pulled a small, unlabeled pill bottle out of one. It only had a few left.

“We don’t have time for anything elaborate,” Hannibal said, almost forlornly, “but I think this will do.” He pulled the cloth out of the man’s mouth and replaced it with the bottle of drugs. “Combined with the rest of the scene, it sends the right message. Don’t you think?”

Will nodded. “I need a new shirt. I promised I’d go back to the bar to finish up with Freddie.”

“You can switch with me.” Hannibal began unbuttoning his shirt.

They were close enough in size only Freddie herself would notice he’d changed. Will had a few ideas about the conclusions she would draw. He’d let her think it was sexual rather than the truth, that he stepped out for an hour to murder someone.

“Thank you.” Will handed over his sticky, blood-soaked shirt and took Hannibal’s clean one. He kept his gaze away from Hannibal’s naked skin, but he still felt blood rush into his face. The thrill of setting the world right, one tiny piece at a time, the thrill of the power that came with it, still flooded his senses. It set every nerve ending on fire.

“Anything you need.” Hannibal’s tone made Will look at him finally. The way Hannibal watched him made his heart flutter, made him a little hard.

He’d been about to start buttoning Hannibal’s shirt—which smelled amazing, and wasn’t helping the situation in Will’s pants—but he let his hands fall back to his sides. He moved towards Hannibal slowly, then slipped his hands around Hannibal’s bare waist.

“I can’t believe there was a time when I knew you and—” Will’s lips were nearly touching Hannibal’s as he spoke. “—Can’t believe I ever thought I didn’t want or need you in my life.”

When he kissed Hannibal it wasn’t soft or gentle, but it was slow and full of hunger. When he pulled away, it was only because he knew if he didn’t, he might not be able to stop.

“Freddie—she’s waiting,” Will panted, trying to explain. “And you should—the hospital,” he motioned to the woman on the bed. “And the meat will spoil.” He wanted to tell Hannibal what he really meant, but he couldn’t find the words.

“Of course. This is hardly the appropriate time for such activities. Give Freddie my regards.”

“Right. I will.” Will finished buttoning his shirt, then glanced at himself in the mirror to make sure he didn’t miss and blood. He put his glasses back on. “I’ll see you later.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Shivers coursed up his spine, but he pushed his lust away. He didn’t need to make it too easy for Freddie to torment him.

When he got back to the bar, Freddie was still camped out at the booth in the corner, fingers flying over her laptop. He sat across from her without comment.

“You keep surprising me,” she said, putting the recorder back on the table. “I was about to go get another drink and write you off as a bad deal.”

“Trust me, Freddie, when I decide to end our relationship, you’ll know. Right now it’s mutually beneficial.”

“Why the wardrobe change?”

“Not part of the story. I’m in the afterlife, remember?”

“I wonder what sort of news story I’ll read tomorrow morning.” Freddie’s keen gaze pierced him, and he had to work hard not to shy away from it. That would only invite another attack.

“I don’t spend much time reading the news these days. Where were we?”

“You’ve got something on your glasses.”

He thought she was lying at first. “I thought we were talking about Francis Dolarhyde.”

“It’s blood, isn’t it?” She sounded almost afraid, but more interested then anything else. Will gave her a bit of grudging respect. She wasn’t squeamish.

“The Tooth Fairy, Ms. Lounds. Or I’ll walk out right now.”

“Alright.” She frowned, and turned on the recorder. “Tell me about when Jack Crawford pulled you out of retirement.”

Will recalled the moment with perfect clarity. He’d been waiting for a while, ever since the first reports. But in truth, he’d been waiting since the moment Hannibal walked out of his door into the snow. He’d known whatever time in between wasn’t real, or permanent. Seeing Jack Crawford again after three years was like waking from a dream. He smiled to himself, and began to speak.


	14. Chapter 14

On the edge of the world, or what felt like it to Will, they killed a man who’d been making children disappear.

All along the coast of South America, murderers quietly vanished only to be found in the most spectacular displays. Will and Hannibal sailed around Cape Horn and took lives as they went, so many Will no longer cared to keep track. The time passed in a pleasant stream of days at sea. The dogs were happy, too, they loved the water. Will and Hannibal rented rooms for the night occasionally, or slept in the small boat cabin. The boat’s kitchen wasn’t fantastic, but somehow Hannibal managed to turn pieces of monsters into gourmet meals. Wolf and Baleia got the leftovers, as long as Will gave the go ahead. Hannibal didn’t always take care to learn what foods dogs couldn’t have. He only cared about his own dietary needs. And Will’s.

The seasons didn’t mean much because of their constant travel. Most of the time it was warm, but cold nights drifted across their days and Will thought about his home in Virginia, when the snow would pile up and his dogs would break through the crusts with bounding leaps. He wondered what Baleia and Wolf would make of the snow. He could imagine it.

In Chile the man behind the counter at a small shop was rude to Hannibal, called him names in Spanish under his breath because he thought they wouldn’t understand. Will recognized the look in Hannibal’s eye, and didn’t fight him. He’d already given Will so much, his freedom, his way of life, everything. Will didn’t begrudge him this small token of appreciation. The man _had_ been very rude, needlessly so. They left his body in a field of flowers, abdominal cavity full of blossoms and a single cow’s skill. It was gorgeous, Will had to admit. And his conscious didn’t nettle him at all, not even as he fed small pieces of the man’s heart to Wolf under the table.

The days moved like a magic spell, but hovering in the back of Will’s mind was the knowledge it couldn’t last forever. Jack was after them in force, and he’d gained some support among other agents who’d seen their work in South America for what it was. If Hannibal had similar misgivings about the length of the rest of their lives, he never gave any indication. In all likelihood he never bothered to worry about it. Will couldn't blame him, things usually just worked out for the best where he was involved.

Weeks passed and Will didn’t kiss Hannibal again, made no attempt at any physical contact beyond the occasional fleeting touch. At first he rationalized it. They were often busy, especially after creating another macabre piece of art. They had to stock the boat up and leave town before the news broke about whoever they’d killed. But days at sea didn’t require much physical labor beyond making sure they didn’t sail into a storm or another boat. Hannibal didn’t push the issue, though Will knew he must have wanted to. The memory of the heat in his eyes was enough to make Will sure about Hannibal’s desires. They weren’t as passive as he liked to pretend, and there was an end to even Hannibal’s patience.

But Will’s fear kept him from escalating things. He thought about it, often, especially when he was alone. He no longer fantasized about anyone else. But he wouldn’t let his mind delve into the reasons he hadn’t made another move. Fear had been a near-constant companion to him at many points in his life, but this fear was different. It wasn’t crawling into another killer’s mind that worried him now. He knew what he was, he knew and accepted the pleasure killing brought him. But this fear was entirely from his own mind. He could blame no other influence.

 

 

 

One morning, as they sailed out of a small town on the coast of Chile and back into the Pacific Ocean, Will stood on the bow and stared out at gathering storm clouds. They were far to the west, probably wouldn’t be a problem, but he had to keep an eye on them anyway. Weather could turn so quickly at sea. They were only a mile from shore, he didn’t risk any more distance.

Everyone else was below, Hannibal reading and the dogs still sleeping. Even with the heavy tension of a building storm on the horizon, the entire world was at peace, every molecule precisely where it belonged. With a sudden wave of epiphany, Will realized he never wanted anything other than this. That even though their lives were certain to end in violence and death, or incarceration, he wouldn’t turn back time. Not a second of it. Hannibal was the love of his life, and as corny as it was, he wanted to spend the rest of whatever remained of their time together.

He tried to pinpoint the moment he fell in love with Hannibal, but he ended up thinking in circles. Maybe it had been the first time Hannibal demonstrated how enchanted he was with Will’s mind without asking for anything in return, without demanding Will use his mind for Hannibal’s personal edification. Hannibal had always pushed Will and examined him because he was curious, fascinated, besotted.

It had taken Will a comparative eternity to finally admit to himself that he loved Hannibal, too. He was experienced with women, and had even had the occasional love, though the relationships always ended badly. But he was out of his element with Hannibal. On the surface he was worried he’d be bad in bed, or at the very least awkward. But the truth of his hesitation ran much deeper.

Steps sounded behind him, and Will turned to see Hannibal approaching. His hair was longer than Will had ever seen it, now, almost to the point of scruffiness, and he still had beard stubble to better disguise his face. Will had never known him to go so long without wearing a three-piece suit, except when he was in prison and unable to choose his own wardrobe.

“The storm might be a problem.”

“Maybe not.” Will turned back to watching the sky. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

“You seem troubled.” Hannibal could always tell, the bastard.

Lightning flashed in the distance. Will turned his back on the danger and made a decision. “I am. I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you that didn’t seem cliché. A way that wouldn’t bore you.”

“What would you like to tell me?” Hannibal sounded only curious, neither alarmed nor eager.

“That I’m in love with you.” The words felt clumsy on his tongue, inadequate, but Hannibal’s reaction was anything but bored. Will closed the space between them.

Thunder rumbled over the waves as he kissed Hannibal. Will stopped fighting, stopped censoring himself or his intentions. He wanted Hannibal, his body ached with need. Electricity thrummed inside him to the beat of Hannibal’s pulse. Hannibal ran his hands through Will’s hair, and they broke apart, both of them gasping for breath.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, resting his forehead against Hannibal’s.

“For what?” Hannibal’s voice was low, full of barely restrained desire.

“For being an asshole. I—I’ve been avoiding this. Making it real.”

“I’ve never wanted to rush or push you, not in regards to intimacy of a physical nature.”

“I was afraid,” Will said softly, pressing a kiss to the corner of Hannibal’s mouth, as if prolonged lack of contact would ruin everything. “I was afraid you only love the idea of me. Afraid you love me like you love every other thing that’s beautiful to you in this world—because it’s without flaw. Once you saw I was human, like everyone else, I’d be just like them in your eyes. On the level of livestock. That’s why I didn’t want to want you.”

“I have never loved someone so singularly in all my life. You’re nothing like a work of art, Will. I can memorize the lines of a painting, the blend of brush strokes. I can recall every note of every song that’s ever moved me to tears, and I can reproduce them in my mind. But you are irreplaceable. No substitute, not even one of my own imagination, could ever compare. Nothing you could do can change that.”

Hannibal gazed into Will’s eyes with warmth and unmistakable love, then kissed him tenderly. The remnants of fear evaporated from Will’s heart, and he let Hannibal lead him into the cabin.

“What about the storm?” Will’s last protest was a real concern. Hannibal pressed him against the wall.

“Keep count after the lightning strikes. If it gets within a mile, we’ll head to shore.”

Will decided that was good enough. He gasped as Hannibal kissed a trail down the side of his neck as his hands nimbly undid the buttons on Will’s shirt. When Hannibal’s hands ghosted over the exposed skin of his sides, Will moaned. Hannibal slid his leg between Will’s and the light pressure on his erection made him arch his back, desperate for more.

With casual strength, Hannibal pulled Will away from the wall and pushed him onto the bed. Will didn’t resist. Every point of contact between their bodies was electric. Hannibal pinned Will’s wrists above his head on the mattress, straddling him. Hannibal’s eyes shone with a wild hunger that Will had never seen before. It made Will want to tease the hunger out, see how deep it ran.

Hannibal brushed his thumb along the scar on Will’s cheek. Through the open door to the cabin, Will saw lightning flash. He counted to three, then Hannibal kissed him again and drove the worry out of his mind. With an almost idle motion, Hannibal ran his free hand down Will’s chest and stomach, then over the fabric of his pants, brushing Will’s cock. Will gasped and bit down on Hannibal’s lower lip, eliciting a moan from him.

“Are you just going to tease me, Dr. Lecter?” Will said, leaning back and watching Hannibal through half-lidded eyes.

“What will you do if I say yes?” His tongue moved over the spot on his lip Will had bitten. “Draw blood?”

“If that’s what it takes.” Will rocked his hips against Hannibal’s. His wrists were still pinned to the bed, and Will thought he might lose his mind if all Hannibal gave him were teasing touches.

“Now you’re tempting me to test that resolve.” Hannibal moved his hand back up Will’s stomach with agonizing slowness. He kissed the side of Will’s throat.

Will bit the crook of Hannibal’s neck, hard, but not with enough force to actually make good on his threat. He wasn’t sure Hannibal really wanted him to break the skin. Will felt Hannibal’s cock stiffen against him as he sucked on the bite mark, then nipped it again.

“You promised blood.” Hannibal’s hand grazed over Will’s nipple.

“So, only one of us can be a tease?” When Hannibal kissed Will again, Will caught Hannibal’s lip between his teeth, and this time he didn’t stop until he tasted blood.

At last Hannibal moved his hand lower, unbuttoning Will’s pants and slipping his hand below his waistline. Still Hannibal’s touch was light and fleeting. Will bit him on the shoulder, through the fabric of his shirt, until Hannibal gasped in pleasure.

“ _Please_ , Hannibal.” A small red stain spread across the otherwise crisp white fabric of Hannibal’s shirt.

With exaggerated slowness, Hannibal unzipped Will’s pants and pushed them down until Will’s cock was free. Then Hannibal began stroking him in earnest, each motion of his hands making Will writhe. Hannibal released Will’s wrists and gripped his hips instead, leaving a trail of kisses as he moved down Will’s body. Each one burned like fire, but they were nothing compared to how Hannibal flicked his tongue over the tip of Will’s cock, then took it inside his mouth. Will watched, heat building inside him, and after only a few minutes, Hannibal looked up to meet his gaze.

“Hannibal, _fuck_ —” Will came, grabbing Hannibal’s forearms and digging his nails in until the waves of pleasure subsided. He glanced down in time to see Hannibal swallow. Aside from the blood on his lip and shirt, Hannibal looked completely put-together. Will himself felt like a wreck, and probably looked like it, too. It hardly seemed fair.

Blood slowly gathered in a few of the scratches on Hannibal’s arms. Will reached out and touched one. Hannibal caught his hand and kissed his palm.

“Do you—” Will moved his free hand to Hannibal’s still-hard cock.

“No need. We can take this slowly.”

“I don’t care about slow.” Will sat up. “I care about what you want. What you need. Tell me.”

“My needs are irrelevant at the moment—”

“No.” Will popped open the button on Hannibal’s pants. “Say it. Do you want me to jack you off?” He undid the zipper. “Suck your cock?” His voice was low, an invitation. “Do you want to fuck me?”

Hunger surged in Hannibal’s eyes. “I want you in every way possible. But only when you’re ready.”

Without responding to that, Will pulled his pants up over his hips and stood, then crossed the cabin and glanced outside. Occasional thunder still rolled across the waves, but the storm was holding steady far to the west. Satisfied, Will turned and slipped out of his shirt, tossing it to the floor, then did the same with his pants. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

On the bed, Hannibal watched Will with amusement that very nearly hid the raw longing that simmered below the surface. Will wanted to strip every last ounce of Hannibal’s restraint away, to see what was left when he was no longer pretending to be civilized. He prowled towards Hannibal, then ripped his shirt open. Buttons went flying, and a ripple of annoyance crossed Hannibal’s face.

“Oops,” Will said without conviction.

“Are you attempting to provoke me, Will?”

“Do you find the casual destruction of your clothes provocative?”

“There’s much to be said for context.” He pulled Will towards him, into a rough kiss. Hannibal was sitting on the edge of the bed now, and Will straddled him. The fabric of Hannibal’s pants brushed the backs of Will’s thighs and made his pulse start racing again. He hadn’t felt this nervous since his first time. This seemed far more monumental.

When their kiss broke, Hannibal cupped Will’s face in his hands. “Am I right in assuming this is your first time?” He’d read Will’s mind, or felt his thready heartbeat and interpreted it correctly.

“Yes. All my knowledge is merely academic.” His cheeks burned with equal parts embarrassment and arousal.

“You never experimented?” Hannibal trailed his hands down Will’s back.

“No. Never thought about it, before you.” He gave Hannibal a wry smile. “Thought I’d be too old for a crisis of sexuality.”

“Human sexuality is often fluid. No matter,” Hannibal gripped Will’s ass, then flipped him over so he was lying on his back. “I’ll go slow.” Hannibal undressed while Will watched, becoming hard again just from the sight.

Beside the bed Hannibal kept his med kit. He reached for it and pulled out lube and condoms. Of course Hannibal would classify them as medical supplies. Or perhaps he kept them there because he was just as likely to need gauze and sutures as condoms.

Hannibal ran his fingers along Will’s inner thighs, pressing his lips to Will’s with that same restraint that was driving Will mad. He was about to comment on it when Hannibal slipped two slick fingers inside him. Will gasped. The sensation was alien but not unpleasant, and soon the motion of Hannibal’s fingers made him ache for more.

The way Hannibal watched him made Will bite his lip, suppressing a moan. Hannibal’s gaze roamed over him, taking in every writhing motion, every reaction the merest twitch of his fingers caused.

“Hannibal,” Will gasped, “Fuck me. Or do I have to ask pretty please?”

Ever obliging, as always, Hannibal did. The first slow thrust drove almost every thought out of Will’s mind. All that remained was need. He left long scratches down Hannibal’s back to ground himself. At last Hannibal’s self-control began to unwind. His hair fell into his eyes, and he breathed heavily through parted lips. Will had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

When Will came again, he made an undignified noise but couldn’t be bothered to care. Seconds later, Hannibal finished with a few ragged breaths and deep thrusts that made Will grip the sheets to keep from costing Hannibal more of his blood. As they lay next to each other, legs entwined and arms wrapped around each other, Will wished he could freeze a moment in time so he could visit it again at his leisure. He never wanted anything to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone for their support! Now that there's only two chapters left, we're getting near the end. Without all of your encouragement, this fic might have been abandoned and never completed. I just hope you all enjoy the rest!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some thought, I decided to combine the last two chapters into one, so in the end it was the 15 chapters I estimated.
> 
> Thank you, again, to everyone who's stuck with me this far, and to everyone who's given me encouragement. I hope you've enjoyed the ride as much as I have.

Springtime in Paris had always been the sort of thing to inspire poets and artists to create masterpieces, and Will could see why. The entire city was alive with blossoming trees and laughing pedestrians. The air was fresh and cool as it wound through the city streets. Will had always wanted to see Paris, but in a vague way, simply because it was what one was supposed to want. He’d never fantasized about long strolls down winding lanes in the soft rain. But with Hannibal by his side, the entire city vibrated with romantic energy. He could see why lovers wouldn’t shut up about their vacations here. And Hannibal knew every haunt, every secret place that tourists hadn't discovered yet.

After committing murders in nearly every South American country, Hannibal and Will had decided a change of scenery was in order. The FBI was working with multiple foreign agencies to hunt them, and by now all but the most stalwart naysayer knew they were alive and well. Europe was an obvious place to look for them, but Jack was chasing his tail in Columbia now, if the news could be trusted.

They spent entire afternoons in art galleries, attended plays and operas at night, and Hannibal cooked pieces of bodies they discretely disposed of in the Seine. The dogs loved France as much as they’d loved everywhere else. For Wolf and Baleia, happiness was a full stomach and someone around to scratch behind their ears. Will had begun thinking of the four of them as a little family, though he didn’t express the sentiment to Hannibal.

Freddie Lounds had been on Oprah talking about her new tell-all book, and she fielded questions about whether or not they were alive with aplomb. She hedged, allowing that the end of her book might just shed a great deal of light on the situation. Will couldn’t even find it in himself to be angry that she’d gone back on that part of her deal. The world knew about Hannibal Lecter’s resurrection. Freddie might as well capitalize on it. Better than some cretin like Chilton, who Will had heard was making a fine recovery and was slated to take over at the Baltimore State Hospital again. As long as Freddie didn’t work with Jack to try to help him find them, Will was content to let her be.

Hannibal didn’t speak of Bedelia anymore. Will hoped he’d let her go, the proverbial one that got away. Will spared a thought for Chiyoh from time to time. He hoped she was happy, wherever she was. Will himself was nearly delirious with it.

When the bottom fell out of the world, it caught him entirely off guard. He’d forgotten to keep one eye on the future, and the end of peace that inevitably came.

 

 

 

Margot Verger had, Hannibal thought, entirely too much money. She’d built her father’s empire into something even more massive and far-reaching than the old bigot had ever dreamed of. She’d branched out of the meat business and had begun selling gourmet-level vegetarian and vegan products, ones that supposedly tasted enough like the real thing to placate the sort of simple-minded fools who obsessed over humaneness to animals while ignoring immigrants who picked vegetables for sixteen hours a day. Margot had it all—a lovely wife, a healthy child, vasts fortunes and the respect of her peers.

Such a shame Hannibal was going to take it all. But Alana Bloom owed him a debt, and Margot had cast her lot with her wife. Only two major obstacles remained.

The first was one of practicality. He hadn’t yet found where Alana was hiding, though he’d narrowed it down to France. Will hadn’t questioned him when he said it was time to visit a few familiar places in Europe, and as long as they kept a low profile here, Alana wouldn’t expect him.

The second obstacle was, of course, Will himself. He had lingering affection for Alana and wouldn’t want to see her harmed. Hannibal hadn’t yet devised a method to bring Will around to his way of thinking, but he would in time. Smaller matters like security measures and bodyguards would be easy enough to bypass once Hannibal found the location.

Sometimes being a wanted criminal was terribly inconvenient. Without contacts, he had to do all the footwork himself. At least some of the work was enjoyable.

With a private little smile, Hannibal walked into an alley. The man who’d been tailing him for an hour now followed. Hannibal was waiting. He slammed the man into the wall, pressing his arm against his throat. When Hannibal held a knife against his thigh, the man stopped struggling.

“I have a few questions regarding your employers,” Hannibal said. “Then you can be on your way.”

Three rather vigorous hours later, the man finally whispered an address through his blood-filled mouth, and Hannibal slit his throat. Once the body had been disposed of, Hannibal made his way back to the quaint apartment he shared with Will. His heart was lighter than it had been in months. All the pieces were falling together.

“You’re in a good mood,” Will said as Hannibal entered. Baleia, now so big and gangling that she hardly seemed to know what to do with herself, milled around his feet, threatening to trip him. Hannibal gave her a sharp command to sit, and she did.

“My errand was productive.”

Will sat at his little desk, making flies for an upcoming fishing trip. Hannibal leaned over him and kissed the corner of his mouth. Such a casual gesture still sent a thrill through Hannibal. He’d wanted Will for such a very long time, and for many years he’d never had more than a distant hope of actually being with him.

“Errand?” Will frowned, his eyes roaming over Hannibal’s clothing, which had a few errant drops of blood on them.

“I was after information.”

“What kind of information?” Will’s voice was guarded now, wary. Hannibal supposed he did deserve that, for keeping things from him on numerous occasions.

“Alana Bloom’s location.”

Will stood, fury etched in the lines of his form. “Planning on making a social call?”

“It’s several years overdue.”

“Let it go, Hannibal. Going after her now is suicidal. She probably has a small army protecting her—”

“Every defense has a weakness.” Hannibal shrugged.

“Why is this so important to you?” Will’s voice had risen, and Wolf began to whine from the corner where he’d been sleeping.

“I cannot bear to be thought of as a man who breaks his promises.”

“You can’t stand to be one-upped by anyone, you mean. She won. Move on. Pettiness doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not in the habit of denying myself pleasures, Will. I hoped you would understand.”

Will gave a short, humorless laugh. “I understand. I just don’t agree.”

“I’d like the chance to convince you.” There was, after all, a practical reason for killing Alana and Margot. The bounty on their heads made no place in the world completely safe for them.

“I’d like you to stop trying to manipulate me for once.” Will stormed towards the door, grabbing his jacket and baseball cap. “I thought you brought me to France because you wanted to share it with me.”

“I did, and still do.” This conversation wasn’t going precisely as Hannibal had hoped.

“Right.” Will paused, hand on the doorknob, staring back at Hannibal with contempt. “Well, sorry. Guess the honeymoon’s over.” He left, slamming the door behind him.

 

 

 

His anger followed Will along familiar paths, and seemed to darken the blue sky above him. He walked with no direction or destination in mind. As long as he was away from Hannibal, he could think, and seethe in peace.

How could he have spent months in Hannibal’s company without realizing? Hannibal had never once mentioned his intentions with Alana, not since Will had woken up on the boat the morning after they’d killed the Dragon. But he’d apparently been planning this all along. Committing high-profile murders all over South America to draw Jack’s attention, then slipping off to France on a whim—every move had been carefully calculated. Will was just a puppet dancing on Hannibal’s strings.

For a while Will entertained the idea of leaving, of making his own way in the world alone, never seeing Hannibal again. But he couldn’t bring himself to do such a thing even hypothetically. He loved Hannibal, desperately, completely. He couldn’t abandon him. He and Hannibal had weathered worse storms.

After a few hours his feet took him to the banks of the Seine. He leaned against the rail, staring at the water as it flowed by. Every life Will had taken, he’d taken in Hannibal’s presence or as a direct result of Hannibal’s actions. Usually both. But this life he couldn’t stomach, couldn’t carry on his conscience. Will still considered Alana a friend, despite everything. But playing that card to Hannibal wouldn’t help.

Pieces of trash floated by, carried by the river. They moved past Will’s eyes unseen. He couldn’t warn Alana without risking their own lives. Even contacting Freddie Lounds would have limited utility—she might not know how to talk to Alana, and she might finally go to Jack if she realized what Hannibal planned to do.

Will could turn a blind eye to Hannibal’s intentions, let him risk his own life trying to kill Alana. One of them would end up dead, possibly both, and Margot, too. An unthinkable option. Whatever Hannibal did, Will resolved to be by his side when it happened. He couldn’t convince Hannibal to let go.

The only thing that remained was helping him. But Will couldn’t stand by and watch innocent people die. He could stop Hannibal, or he could join him.

The sun arced across the sky and sank towards the horizon. At last Will began walking home, where Hannibal was probably already preparing a bribe of epic proportions. Will almost expected to find several new dogs in addition to the usual over-the-top, I’m-sorry meal. But the apartment had the same number of occupants as when he’d left earlier.

Wolf and Baleia greeted him as if he’d been gone years instead of hours. The alluring scent of spices and cooking meat drifted out of the kitchen. Will hung up his jacket and hat and all but dragged his feet as he approached Hannibal.

For a moment Will hovered in the doorway, watching Hannibal move around the kitchen. He was beautiful, in a simple white apron and pale pink shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The preciseness of his motion had a rhythm to it, a graceful efficiency. Will swallowed the lump in his throat and ignored the dull, persistent ache in his chest.

“What’s for dinner?”

Hannibal stopped what he was doing—whisking something in a small bowl—and turned. “Have you come to say goodbye?”

“No. Never.” The realization that Hannibal expected him to leave caused Will physical pain. “I shouldn’t have stormed out. I just needed time, space to think.”

“And where have your thoughts led you?”

“Alana and Margot won’t stop looking for us. They—they had their chance.” Will couldn’t stop his voice from breaking. “I’m not happy about it. But I’ll help you.”

“Thank you, Will.” Hannibal picked the whisk and bowl back up.

“When do we leave?”

“After dinner.”

 

 

 

In the hills of the French countryside stretched a sprawling estate that had been, until recently, unoccupied. Now the stables were full of fine horses, and the rooms had been tastefully appointed and were dusted regularly by a large staff. During the day the grounds pulsed with activity, but under a moonless night sky, the house almost seemed still, until the private security made their rounds.

Will and Hannibal crossed two miles on foot, approaching from the south, the opposite direction of the long driveway. They got the jump on two guards and took their guns. That made getting rid of the rest easier, especially since the guards were all using silencers. By the time the alarm was raised, they were inside the house.

Alana and Margot had been awake, in one of the downstairs sitting rooms. Will entered just as the security started shouting. He met Alana’s eye, and the numbness he’d been carefully holding around himself shattered. He could imagine exactly what it felt like to be in her place. Home invaded, peace destroyed in an instant when a ghost walked through the door.

She and Margot stood as one, but Will leveled his pistol at Alana, finger safely away from the trigger.

“Don’t move.” He didn’t sound anything close to commanding. Alana pressed her lips into a thin line.

Behind him, Hannibal fired two more shots, then closed and locked the door behind him.

“Will.” Alana spoke directly to Will, ignoring Hannibal. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry.” It was all he could manage before bile started to rise in his throat.

“Sit down,” Hannibal waved his gun in the direction of the couch.

“Well,” Margot said, “Jack Crawford will certainly feel vindicated. Not that I ever doubted him.” She finished drinking her glass of wine, then joined Alana on the couch.

“I did wonder if you were being a little too obvious in South America.” Alana’s eyes never left Will’s. She was furious with him.

“Guess I owe you five dollars.” Margot reached her hand out and grasped Alana’s. Will’s insides twisted with guilt.

“Terribly sorry about this, Ms. Verger.” Hannibal lowered his gun and slipped a knife out of his pocket. “Nothing personal. This is between Alana and me, if you’d care to leave?”

“Not a chance, you asshole.”

“Will?” Hannibal held the knife out to him, and they exchanged weapons.

The handle felt heavy and awkward in his hand, the blade badly weighted. He’d used the same one before, and it had been fine then, but now nothing about the world seemed right. Everything was slightly off kilter, as if he’d had one too many drinks. Alana’s eyes seemed to be the only clear thing in the room, and they were desperate, pleading.

Since the moment Hannibal told him about his plans for Alana, he’d been unable to decide which way he would fall when the time came. He’d only known he had to be here, possibly to stop Hannibal, or to help him stay alive. But now Will knew he couldn’t live with himself if he killed Alana. He couldn’t stand by and watch someone else do it, either.

This was the line in the sand, and Hannibal had finally pushed Will right up to it. Stepping across meant losing all sense of himself, forever. He was a serial killer, plain and simple, but he couldn’t murder his friend.

“I’m sorry, Hannibal.” Will dropped the knife on the carpet. “We’re leaving.”

“Will.” Hannibal put his free hand on Will’s shoulder, giving him a fond smile. “I understand. You don’t have to watch.”

Margot shifted on the couch, but stilled when Hannibal shot her a dangerous look.

“No. We’re both leaving them alive. They’ll call off the bounty. We’ll never set foot in the same country as them again.” Will looked at Alana. She nodded.

“I agree. Margot?”

“If Dr. Lecter promises. Saves me money, anyway.”

“A diplomatic solution isn’t what I came here for.” He pointed the gun at Margot’s head. “At least, Ms. Verger, I can promise you a painless end, which is more than I can say about your wife.”

“You’ll have to shoot me first, Hannibal.” Will moved without thinking, putting himself between Margot and the barrel.

An eternity stretched between them. Hannibal’s eyes were unreadable as he gazed at Will. At last, he said, “You would choose them over me?”

“I’m not choosing anything. I’m protecting them. You’re the one choosing your own pride over happiness. We have an out. Let’s take it.” Will stepped forward until the barrel of the gun pressed against his sternum.

Movement flashed in the corner of his eye, then Hannibal was pushing him aside. Will stumbled and fell, but had a perfect view of what happened next.

Margot launched herself off the couch, stooping to retrieve the knife Will had dropped. She brought it up and plunged it into Hannibal’s torso, then jerked it out with a vicious snarl. Hannibal struck the side of her head with the butt of the gun, and she stumbled. Will was up on his feet after that, arms on Hannibal, supporting his weight.

Security began banging on the door, and Will realized it was time to leave. Well past time. He pulled Hannibal to one of the large windows that overlooked the countryside. Using his elbow, he broke the glass enough so Hannibal could climb through. Will followed him as bullets whirred past their heads.

The darkness outside seemed heavier than it had been before, and Will stumbled over unseen obstacles as his eyes adjusted. He longed for the numbness he’d felt as they’d broken in—now agony pulsed through him. He’d come here hoping to find a way for everyone to be happy, or at least content, and now no one was.

They ran until Hannibal couldn’t, then Will slung Hannibal’s arm over his shoulder and made it another quarter-mile before Hannibal sank to his knees. They were behind a hill, hidden from sight from the direction of the house, but the security would catch up to them soon.

Kneeling beside Hannibal, Will was almost afraid to look at the damage. He couldn’t bear the knowledge of what it might mean. Hannibal, to his credit, seemed less concerned. He pulled up the soaked fabric of his shirt to reveal a deep wound nearly on top of the scar the Dragon had given him.

“I don’t suppose you have a needle and thread with you?” Hannibal said. Will couldn’t imagine how he found the energy to joke at a time like this.

“No.” Will ripped a piece of his shirt off, folding it quickly and pressing it to Hannibal’s side. “I’m sorry.”

“Not at all. Careless of me to forget my sewing kit.”

“That’s not what I mean. I should never have let it come to this.”

“It would have been easier if you’d simply agreed to kill her.” Hannibal put his hand over Will’s. “But, in retrospect, I should have anticipated your reaction. This small betrayal shouldn’t have surprised me.”

The words cut Will, but they were true. He’d misled Hannibal, let him think he intended to kill Alana and Margot, when in his heart he’d known he couldn’t.

“This was my final test for you,” Hannibal said, voice a little weaker now than it had been. “To see if you had fully emerged from the chrysalis.”

“Guess I haven’t.”

“I think you have. I was only blinded by hubris, to think you’d be made partially in my image. But you are entirely your own. I wanted her death to be another pomegranate seed, binding you to me.”

The guards were closing in. Will could hear them now as they searched. “Can you walk?”

“It’s over, Will. Winter is ending. You have to go back.”

“No.” He pressed harder on the cloth over Hannibal’s wound. Hot blood stained his fingers. “Hannibal, _no_.”

“My beautiful, darling Will.” Hannibal brushed a lock of hair from Will’s forehead. “When the police question you, say it was Stockholm syndrome.”

“And what will you tell them?”

Hannibal chuckled. “Dead men don’t talk.”

“Don’t—” Will’s words were broken with a sob.

With surprising strength, Hannibal pulled Will down, giving him a kiss that was so tender Will thought the agony that gripped his heart would kill him. When Hannibal pushed him away, Will saw tears gathering in his eyes.

“When life becomes maddeningly polite, think of me.” Hannibal’s eyes slowly closed, and the smile slipped off his face.

“No—Hannibal—stay with me!” Will shook Hannibal’s shoulder, but his head only lolled back.

When the guards crested the hill and found Will Graham, he was bent double over Hannibal, sobbing. It took two men to pull him away, and another to pry his fingers from Hannibal’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for that, but I'm not sorry. 
> 
> But! This story isn't over, and in many ways it's just getting started. The next in the series will cover s5 material.
> 
> Thank you again, readers, so very much <3


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